


Black with Autumn Rain

by whimsicule



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Character Death, Crime, Folklore, M/M, Magical Realism, Mentions of Blood, Non-Graphic Depictions of Corpses, North York Moors, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 93,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Thank you,” Geoff says, taking a sip of his tea. “What did you tell him?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Louis has a sip as well, lets the tea burn down his throat too quickly, too hot, and he feels it all the way down to his stomach. “The truth. Essentially,” he replies after a moment, licking his lips, relishing the slightly bitter taste of the brew that’s never quite strong enough for Louis’ liking. At least it’s not decaf. “That my dog scented it. That I didn’t touch the body. That I came here first thing.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Geoff nods pensively. “Did he believe you?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Probably not. There’s only so many people who can drown on dry land before it gets fishy.”</i>
</p><p>or: Harry is a journalist, Louis has lots of secrets and the moors aren't exactly the ideal place to rekindle a lost romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> So. Here it is. The fucking bane of my existence. I started working on this in August last year and I've gone through phases of hammering out 5k a day to barely managing 500 words a month, so it has been tough, and I've come very close to throwing the towel. 
> 
> Fortunately, that didn't happen, but the two people I have got to thank most for this are [geeb](http://genuinelybelieve.tumblr.com/) and [dimples](http://harrysdimplesarethedeathofme.tumblr.com/), who should have probably been paid for all the time and patience they gave to me when I was moaning and complaining and agonising over this stupid story. So thank you. Additionally, geeb also beta'd this monster, because she is brilliant and a saint and clearly too good for this world.
> 
> About this story: this is new terrain for me, not necessarily when it comes to tone and parts of the genre, but the embellishments of it, so I hope it turned out the way I wanted it to, and I guess there is no way to know until you guys have read it. I've written all but the last chapter plus epilogue, so you can be assured of regular updates and the impending completion of it all. 
> 
> A few more things to add before we proceed: Rosedale Abbey is a real place. Unfortunately, I have never been, so I have taken certain liberties when it comes to describing the place. Additionally, I have taken a few liberties with regards to journalistic practices and police investigation. Nothing major, but do not expect bulletproof accuracy when it comes to the respective protocols. 
> 
> So without further ado, I hope you enjoy this, and feel free to either leave some feedback here or drop me a message on [tumblr](http://whimsicule.tumblr.com).
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the few original characters that float around in the background. This is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities with reality are unintended and incidental. 
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: non-graphic description of a corpse, lots of swearing

 

 

“The old church tower and garden wall  
Are black with autumn rain  
And dreary winds foreboding call  
The darkness down again.”  

**Emily Brontë** , _The Complete Poems_

  

***

CHAPTER I.

There’s a light gleaming in the distance. 

Against the dull grey background, fuzzy with mist and drizzle, its edges are soft, but it stands out nonetheless, tirelessly flickering at a point where earth becomes sky – or perhaps the other way around. It’s hard to tell when heavy clouds are dragging over the ground, which is far too frozen for this time of year. Up here, the moss-covered hills are whispering, almost white with ice clinging to the pillowy shrubs, robbing the surrounding area of all colours. The harsh winds tearing over the plateau pick up speed as they go over the edges, hurtling down into the valley and turning whispers into screams. 

It makes the back of his neck prickle, even with woollen scarves bunched up from his shoulders to his nose, the tip of it practically numb from the cold. But he’s used to it. He knows how it is. There’s a familiarity with these moors ingrained in him, allowing him to navigate a safe route through a terrain that’s tough to handle even in better conditions. Now the uneven ground is rock solid, fog so thick he can barely see his outstretched hand. 

Tugging his hat down over his ears, Louis uses his teeth to pull off his right glove before crouching down, fumbling for the piece of chalk that has undoubtedly turned the inside of his pocket white. He frees one of the almost black rocks of moss, wipes the smoothest surface down with the end of his scarf. The sign he draws with the crumbling piece of chalk is practiced, by now as familiar as the landscape he’s surrounded by. 

His eyes flicker up just as the light gives off what almost seems to be an angry twitch. Satisfied, Louis gets back to his feet, wipes his fingers and brings two of them to his lips. His sharp whistle barely breaches the noise of the wind still tearing at his clothes, but when he gets an excited bark in reply, he knows he’s been heard. It only takes a few more seconds until a blur of dark fur shoots towards him, dog tags clinking together, the little silver bell Louis had attached to the collar chiming along. He stops right in front of Louis and sits, tail wagging so quickly his bottom starts to move with it. 

“Given the pygmy shrews a run for their money then, Puck?” he asks and Puck yaps in reply, standing up and sitting down again like he can’t make up his mind. The dog is still buzzing with energy, even though they’ve been out for over an hour, at least, braving this horrible weather at the crack of dawn. “Ready to go home?” 

Louis crouches down once more and gives Puck’s ears a good scratching. His nose and paws are dirty, undoubtedly because he’d tried to dig up rodents again. Louis makes a mental note to scrub him down later. Giving Puck another quick rub, he straightens up and pulls his glove back on. The sky is brightening up a little, indicating that the sun is slowly and steadily rising, and Louis’ stomach starts rumbling. He needs a cuppa, some toast, and a hot shower, and he guesses he should get a head start proofing the windows and prepping the house for what’s probably going to be a very long and cold winter. 

He has to lean back against the wind as they slowly start their descent back towards the village that’s sleepily nestled in the still-dark valley, mindful of the scattered rocks poking out of the ground, Puck carelessly running ahead in a jagged line. He’s out of sight within seconds and Louis doesn’t try to keep up. Their morning routine is just as ingrained in his dog as it is in him, and Puck is just as eager to get his breakfast and take a nap in front of the fire. 

His calves ache, despite being used to long treks, but it’s not steep for very long. The hill is interrupted by the remnants of the gravel road leading to the long deserted mines, weeds and moss having long grown over the road, the land almost entirely reclaiming it. The road leads down towards the village in a gentle slope, but Louis doesn’t like using it, for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. Puck has taken the same dislike to it, which is why Louis is slightly surprised to see his dog standing smack dab in the middle of it, entirely still, ears perked up. 

Louis comes to a halt, following Puck’s line of sight. It’s hard to see anything clearly in this weather and this early in the morning, so he squints, wondering what his dog has gotten wind of. He takes a step forward. Puck lets out a quiet whine that makes Louis stop in his tracks instantly, blood running cold. 

Because that’s when he sees it as well. 

There’s a wet trail up ahead, coming from downhill and crossing the path, leading to the mines. And when the next gust of strong wind suddenly changes direction, Louis smells it too; stale water and rotten fish and something akin to foul breath. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, but he swallows around the nausea and steps forward, body taut. 

He looks over his shoulder. “Stay!” he tells Puck, and the dog sits obediently, but not without another soft whimper as Louis keeps walking, making sure not to step into the damp path he’s following with an accelerating pulse. The smell is prominent now, but it won’t stick, will fade just as quickly as the dark puddles that have collected. 

Louis keeps his steps slow and his breath shallow as the ruins come into view, looking otherworldly nestled in fog, the crumbling archways a stark contrast to the black gorges they embrace. It’s always a chilling sight, and Louis doesn’t come here often – none of the locals do. Tourists tend to find their way here, for some reason so utterly fascinated with what once was. 

But this one, Louis thinks with dread pooling low in his stomach and a slowly rising panic that grips his throat…this one didn’t come here to view the sights. It’s a tall man, how old Louis can’t tell, because he’s wearing a hat and is lying face down in a puddle just in front of one of the archways, like prey resting on the predator’s tongue before getting swallowed up. He’s in an old-fashioned windbreaker, khakis, and heavy boots, and he’s absolutely drenched from head to toe. 

He should be more shocked, but Louis knows there’s nothing to be done. He’s probably been dead for a while. What Louis needs to do now is stay calm and rational, take Puck back to the village and alert the officer that has been staying at the Inn for the past week. Another dead, he sighs to himself, and unwinds Puck’s leash from around his neck, turning back to where he came from. It means more officers, more questions, more attention from the public, and more poking around; people digging up things that are supposed to remain buried. Which is fitting, he guesses as he throws a final look over his shoulder, fog swallowing up the mines once more.

 

 

The wood burner has probably been running all night, filling the entire room with cosy warmth and the pleasant smell of resin and smouldering logs. It crackles and creaks, but does little to lift the heavy silence that has settled over them. The overhead lights dip everything in warm hues, but outside the windows adorned with frost, it’s still dim and grey. 

Louis wraps his arms tighter around his upper body, fingertips digging into the spaces between his ribs. He doesn’t feel cold, but there’s a shiver he can’t seem to shake that’s coursing through his body, and it goes along with the prickle he feels at the back of his neck; a general unease that makes his body thrum with it, heart beating fast. Puck is curled up at his feet, head on his paws, miffed because Louis refused to give him a piece of his dry and slightly charred slice of toast. 

He glances up when Geoff walks in from the back room, two steaming mugs in his hands, face rumpled and tired, looking like he’s aged another five years in the last hour. Sliding one of the mugs across the table to Louis, he sits down opposite him and leans heavily on his forearms. 

Geoff sighs. “You really should take your phone with you when you head out.” 

Louis cradles the mug between his hands, letting the hot steam rise up and cloud his vision for a moment. “I don’t have reception out there, so what’s the point?” 

“Louis –” 

“Right, right,” Louis concedes, eyes flickering up for a beat. “Sorry. I’ll remember next time.” 

“Thank you,” Geoff says, taking a sip of his tea. “What did you tell him?” 

Louis has a sip as well, lets the tea burn down his throat too quickly, too hot, and he feels it all the way down to his stomach. “The truth. Essentially,” he replies after a moment, licking his lips, relishing the slightly bitter taste of the brew that’s never quite strong enough for Louis’ liking. At least it’s not decaf. “That my dog scented it. That I didn’t touch the body. That I came here first thing.” 

Geoff nods pensively. “Did he believe you?” 

“Probably not. There’s only so many people who can drown on dry land before it gets fishy.” 

They don’t say anything for a few minutes and Louis soaks up the silence. Undoubtedly, in a couple of hours, the village will be swarming with police and forensic teams and reporters and they’ll all have trouble keeping their heads above the water. It’s beginning to wear everyone down, Louis thinks absentmindedly as he lifts his gaze and looks at Geoff, who has dropped his own to his hands, forehead creased with worry. Because as hordes of unwanted people take over their home, this latest event is likely to drive away the few remaining tourists still present in the B&Bs and guest houses. For a community that relies heavily on tourism, that’s far from ideal. 

Four dead hikers aren’t particularly good advertisements. 

Louis guesses he should feel more sorry for them, but he’s having a hard time feeling anything other than a medley of detachment, irritation, and resentment. He doesn’t exactly voice that, but it’s definitely why that officer from Pickering is side-eyeing him. Although Louis doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb, he’s just weird enough to arouse suspicion. 

“When’s Liam coming back?” he tries to change the subject, and Geoff is tired enough to indulge him. 

“Called last night. He said he’d drive up some time around noon, so he should be back before dinner.”   

Louis hums and finishes his tea. “I’ll see him tomorrow then. Might need his help with the attic windows. I think I need to replace the frames after all.” 

“You should have done that weeks ago.” 

“I know, I know,” Louis sighs and zips up his jacket, drapes Puck’s leash around his neck and grabs his hat and gloves. “If I get frostbite from climbing up to the roof, I won’t complain.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Geoff chuckles as Louis gets up, Puck scrambling to follow him, paws scratching over the floorboards and tightly curled black fur shimmering in the light. “Joining us for dinner?” 

“Maybe tomorrow,” Louis answers as he heads to the door, “I’ve got a few things to take care of.” 

Geoff nods gravely as he stands in the doorway, hand curled around the frame and gaze weary. Geoff’s stare, fixed firmly on Louis, stirs nausea in Louis’ belly, but he tries to keep his steps light as he walks down the stairs leading to the Inn’s main door. 

“Take care of yourself, son,” Geoff tells him, his voice heavy with things they’ve all decided to leave unsaid. “And stay on the roads.” 

“Promise,” Louis throws over his shoulder, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he leaves the entirely empty car park and the village behind him, heading north. It would be quicker to cut through the surrounding fields instead of following the narrow, only partially cemented road, cross the river where it’s narrow and not very deep, but considering everything that’s happened, Louis doesn’t want to push his luck. 

It starts to drizzle when Louis reaches the spot where the paved street turns into an uneven trail, speckled with potholes that fill slowly with muddy rainwater, and Louis refuses to sneak a glance across the valley where he could probably make out the mines through the steadily fading fog. Instead, he keeps his eyes ahead, and thankfully soon sees the beginning of his own driveway that hardly stands out with shrubs growing all over it. If he leaves them to grow long enough, maybe Liam will trim everything in annoyance. But if not, Louis doesn’t particularly care. He isn’t really into landscaping. 

He turns to his right, Puck’s bell ringing close behind him and it’s only another second before he rushes past Louis, flying up the overgrown path that leads up to the old manor house with the crooked windows and flaking paint on the front door. Countless branches and twigs poke at its brittle limestone walls as it looms darkly, the thick curtains drawn in almost every room making it appear to be entirely deserted. Louis’ rusty Jeep is parked in front of the small shed that’s one storm away from becoming firewood, and the front garden, it’s – well. He isn’t into gardening, either. 

Puck is wagging his tail, waiting by the front door, and Louis wonders distractedly if he should perhaps take better care of the property, maybe hire a gardener if he can’t get his arse up, but with winter rapidly approaching, it’s not the right time to think about the state of his garden. What he does have to think about is the state of the windows and the roof and Louis groans internally as he digs through his pockets for his keys. The lock creaks as it turns and Louis makes his dog sit on the porch while he goes inside to grab a towel to clean him up a little. 

He crouches down and rids Puck’s paws, belly and snout of the first layer of dirt as the soft drizzle turns into a downpour, heavy drops hitting the ground in rapid staccato. Louis herds his dog inside and closes the door behind him, drops his hat and scarf onto the narrow sideboard and hangs up his jacket, leaving his boots next to the pile of dirty sneakers. Not bothering with switching on the lights, he makes a beeline for the kitchen at the end of the long corridor where Puck is already attacking his breakfast, dragging his bowl over the tiles in his excitement. 

The fridge is wide open. 

Louis sighs, steps forward, and reaches inside. As suspected, the carton of milk is empty, nothing more than a small puddle at the bottom, which is barely enough for his tea. 

“You know,” he says to the room at large, turning around to look at the empty space around him, “if you drink all my milk, the least you could do is close the door and chuck it in the bin. Maybe leave a note.” 

Louis doesn’t get a response. Not that he expected one.

 

 

Louis spends the rest of the day holed up in his room watching reruns of _Black Adder_ , covered by a mountain of blankets. He keeps a thermos of tea by the bed and a box of Shreddies that he dips his hand into every once in a while, and he should be embarrassed, because this isn’t how a twenty-five-year-old should be spending his days. But there’s nobody but his dog here to judge him. 

His phone buzzes twice towards the evening with messages from Liam saying that he’s home and that he’ll see Louis in the morning, and just as the sun is setting behind a heavy curtain of clouds, Louis folds the blankets back, heads downstairs and puts on his boots. He shrugs on his jacket, grabs his hat and his scarf, Puck already bouncing by the door, makes sure that he’s got enough chalk in his pockets and leaves the house. 

It’s the same route, day in and day out. The heavy rain has loosened up the ground and with every step, mud squelches and Louis sinks ankle-deep into it, making the trek uphill even more straining than usual. But Louis grits his teeth, blinks against the wind and keeps going until everything just opens up around him and he finally feels like he can breathe. 

The moors seem infinite at night, stretching beyond the horizon, an endless marriage of paradoxes – peaceful and wild, gentle and harsh, quiet and still screaming. Deserted, but so full of life. Louis stretches out his arms and tilts his face up towards the sky, resists the urge to sink backwards and let the moss cushion his fall. Resists the urge to dig his hands into the ground to feel it, to press his face close to smell it and soak it all up, senses amplified. 

Pretends that he’s not aching for it. 

His arms are trembling with tension and his fingers are tingling from the cold, but Louis allows himself a few minutes, listens to the miniscule twigs rustle and crack before Puck grows impatient, his bell jingling as he runs in circles around him, a dark shadow bleeding into even darker surroundings. Only when the cold wetness starts seeping through his boots, making his socks clammy, does Louis continue on his trek. 

Karen would most definitely scold him if she knew he’d left his flashlight back at the house, but Louis could navigate through the moors with his eyes closed. She’d be equally unnerved were she to witness him deliberately stepping off the track to head further north, walking cross-country to the highest point of the plateau where he redraws the sign he’d left here this morning, white chalk entirely faded thanks to the downpour that’s still hanging in the air, making it damp. 

It’s getting late, and he still has a lot of ground to cover, so Louis puts the chalk back into his pocket, makes sure that Puck isn’t running too far, and heads west.

  

 

Sunday morning dawns with Liam nearly knocking down his front door with an amount of happy energy Louis doesn’t appreciate on his day off. 

“It’s my day off,” he grumbles when he lets Liam inside, still in joggers, two pairs of socks, and a sweatshirt he’s washed wrong so many times one sleeve is longer than the other. Louis is not a morning person. He gets up at the arse crack of dawn six days a week, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. After nearly twenty years of friendship, Liam should know better than to confront Louis with his good mood before he’s had his tea and some cereal. 

“I know,” Liam says, not looking at Louis, but at his traitor of a dog who’s wagging his tail like Liam’s got bloody pastrami in his coat pockets. “But I thought you’d want to get started on the windows as soon as possible.” He scratches Puck behind the ears before straightening his back again and turning his gaze on Louis. “Temperatures are supposed to drop next week.” 

Louis sighs heavily and rubs a hand over his tired eyes. “It’s seven in the morning.” 

But Liam is already heading down the hall and into the kitchen, so Louis heaves another sigh and follows him with dragging feet. “Your fridge is open,” Liam calls out, and it’s definitely too early for this, Louis decides. He needs a shower and about ten minutes of silence while he fuels his body with caffeine and probably too much sugar. 

“Then close it,” he replies with a slight roll of his eyes. The tiles in the kitchen are so cold that Louis can feel it through his socks, and he makes a mental note to get some wood from the shed to get his wood burner going some time today. But he could probably bribe Liam into doing that for him. “Put the kettle on, will ya? I’m out of milk though.” 

“You should have said,” Liam tells him as he fills the kettle with water and sets it atop the old range cooker, “I would have brought some with me.” Both kettle and range could probably do with an upgrade, but Louis’ Nan had treasured them so much he can’t quite bring himself to replace them. 

“Wasn’t awake to do that, was I?” Louis gripes back and sinks onto one of the chairs set around the round kitchen table. Yawning, he drops his forehead onto the wooden surface and feels crumbs dig into his skin, which probably means that the tin of ginger snaps he keeps next to the toaster is now empty as well. 

“Do you want eggs on toast?” 

Louis hears Liam rummage through the cupboards, but he closes his eyes and doesn’t move. “Don’t have any eggs.” He doesn’t have toast either. 

The fridge opens and closes again. “What _do_ you have?” 

He turns his head so that it’s his cheek that’s pressed against the tabletop. “I had Shreddies until yesterday,” prompting Liam to sigh heavily like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I was gonna do a shop yesterday,” Louis defends weakly, “but then – well.” 

He doesn’t expect Liam’s demeanour to change quite as much as it does, but he goes from looking slightly annoyed to overbearingly worried. “Oh shit, sorry. My dad mentioned it, but I just – are you okay?” His eyebrows draw together and he pulls a chair out, leans forward and sends gazes at Louis sympathetically. 

Louis doesn’t like it. “It’s fine. I didn’t see anything. Just a guy lying facedown in a puddle.” Liam doesn’t look convinced and Louis raises his brows in response. “It’s not left me with emotional scars, Payno. I’m _fine_.” 

The kettle starts to boil and whistle, but Liam ignores it. “You don’t look fine,” he insists. 

_That’s because I’m fucking not_ , Louis wants to yell, but he swallows it down, having neither the time nor the energy nor the patience to get into that. He loves Liam, he really does, but there are things Louis just can’t talk to him about, so he refuses to reply and pushes himself to his feet instead, walks to the stove and fills the two mugs Liam prepared with hot water. 

“How was Oxford?” He hopes to divert conversation and Liam is excited enough to be asked to let it slide. 

“Great,” he replies, “really great. Soph isn’t that busy yet, so we could actually spend most of the time together. It’s nice, really different from up here, but it’s not like she’s gonna stay there once she graduates.” Liam clears his throat. “It’s just a year, you know? And we’re trying to take things slow this time around.” 

Louis hands him his tea with a smirk. “Look at you, Payno, in your grown-up relationship, making grown-up decisions.” 

Liam smiles almost bashfully. “Shut up. It’s just – you know. Communication. Not really hard once we sat down and talked things through. Soph’s gonna come up for a weekend and I’ll probably drive down and spend Christmas with her and her family in London. If I can convince my mum to let me go, that is.” 

“Good luck with that,” Louis almost snorts into his tea; he can practically hear Karen’s shrill voice ringing in his ears. He sinks down onto his chair and wraps his hands around the cup, drumming his fingertips against it in a quick rhythm. Paws scratch over the tiles and a moment later, Puck curls up right on top of his feet. “Did you hear that, Puck?” Louis asks his dog, who only lifts a disinterested ear. “Payno’s gonna leave us for Christmas. Who’s gonna secretly feed you all the stuffing under the table because even after twenty-five years, they can’t bring up the courage to tell their mum that they hate caraway seeds?” 

“Oh God,” Liam groans. “Don’t remind me of that stuffing. But I think your dog will forgive me. You’ll just have to feed him the stuffing instead.” 

Louis doesn’t say anything to that. His throat burns slightly and he takes a hasty sip of his tea, nearly burning his tongue because it’s still scalding hot. He can feel Liam’s eyes on him again, but Louis’ gaze remains firmly fixed on Puck’s black fur. 

“Lou,” Liam starts almost carefully and Louis doesn’t like it; doesn’t like how Liam is so careful with him and so mindful of his feelings. “You know that even if I’m not here, mum and dad will want to have you over for Christmas, right? And if you don’t come, mum will come and drag you to the Inn by your ears.” He sighs heavily when Louis still doesn’t reply and Louis – 

Well. Liam’s family is his family, technically, or has been for the past five years, since his grandmother passed away. And before that, even, since he and Liam had practically grown up together and Louis had spent half his time at the Inn. They’d been the only boys their age, so sticking together had been almost instinctual. But Louis still sometimes feels like he’s intruding, despite many reassurances that he’s not. Yet spending Christmas with Liam’s family while Liam is off being a functioning adult makes Louis feel inadequate; it makes him see how much he doesn’t have it together. 

“Louis,” Liam repeats. 

“I know,” Louis is quick to cut him off this time. “I know.” He wriggles his toes, prompting Puck to whine and roll off his feet so that Louis can get up. “Now, I’ll have a quick shower and then I’ll meet you up in the attic?” 

His chair scrapes over the floor and so does Liam’s a moment later. Louis clears his throat and runs a hand through his tousled hair. He should probably have it cut, but then again, he doesn’t really see the point when he’s likely to wear a hat for the majority of winter anyway. The house is draughty and Louis doesn’t like wasting money on heating it when it’s just him and the dog. 

“Sure,” Liam nods. “Are the tools still in the shed?” 

“Should be,” Louis replies as they exit the kitchen together and step into the hallway. There’s dust swirling around in the dimly lit air and it tickles Louis’ nose slightly. “The rest is upstairs already,” he adds before they part ways.

  

 

They spend the rest of the day working on the windows, Puck running around in the garden below and chasing squirrels up trees, and by the time they climb down the stairs, the sun is setting blood red on the horizon. It drizzles slightly on their way back to the village, leaving the road wet and slippery, and Karen fusses over them as soon as they’re through the door. She hovers over Louis in particular, squeezing his bony shoulders and pushing him down into the seat closest to the fireplace in the backroom. 

Louis lets the dinner conversation wash over him, focuses on his chicken and ignores Puck’s begging. Despite working all day, he doesn’t feel particularly hungry and he’s pushing string beans around his plate when Karen suddenly addresses him directly. 

“Louis, sweetie,” she says, leaning over slightly and lowering her voice even though she, Liam, and Louis are the only people in the back room at the moment. “This young man checked in this afternoon, and I think he’s a journalist, because he asked for you.” 

Louis’ fork scratches over the china. “What?” 

“I didn’t tell him anything, of course,” Karen goes on immediately, furrowing her brows. “He’s probably gotten wind of you finding the body and wants to get a scoop. Those journalists have no sense of privacy or respect. They’re like a plague of locusts.” 

“Mum!” 

“What?” She turns to Liam. “It’s true. They’ve been snooping around for weeks and half of them don’t even have manners. The police should do something about them. They’re scaring away the guests.” 

Louis doesn’t say that the dead tourists are probably the reason people are staying away, and neither does Liam, but Liam still tells his mother, “They’re just doing their job. I’m sure they’ll go once they realise nobody is talking to them.” 

Karen scoffs. “I sure hope so. Anyway, he asked me where he could find you, dear, but I told him I didn’t know who he was talking about. He was wearing an awfully posh coat, so if you see him around, it’s probably best to avoid him.” 

“Thanks, Karen,” Louis smiles at her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

 

The next two days are dry but increasingly chilly. He and Liam spend another couple of hours proofing the remaining windows and fixing a persistent leak in the roof. Louis manages to drive to Pickering to buy a month’s worth of groceries before the weekend rush hits, stocks up on dog food and other necessities, and takes Puck for a quick walk around the town, keeping his jacket collar flipped up against the sharp winds dragging through the narrow alleys. 

He ends up buying a pack of fags from a corner shop, as well as – against his better judgement – the latest _Yorkshire Post_ , and he smokes six as he skims the pages, ignores the way his throat burns as he returns over and over again to the article taking up the entire second page. It’s embellished and exaggerated, but it certainly paints a picture. 

“ _Moorland killer claims fourth victim_ ,” Louis reads out loud to himself, pulling his mouth into a frown. A grainy picture of the mines properly sets the mood, accompanied by snapshots of the dead tourists, one woman and three men, all between the ages of thirty-eight and fifty-two. The article states the cause of death as asphyxiation, and Louis doubts that even the forensic team can classify it as something else. 

Thankfully, he isn’t mentioned by name, which does make him wonder why anyone would ask for him specifically. The reporters that have been frequenting the village –  some staying for a few days, some driving up every other day – have been questioning all the locals with little to no success, and he doubts the police are disclosing information about an ongoing investigation. Something might have slipped nonetheless, so Louis decides not to waste any more time thinking about it and rolls up the paper, throwing it into the nearest bin. Pocketing the fags, he makes his way back to his car, filled to the brim with supplies, and makes his way home just in time for sunset and the evening walk across the plateau.

  

 

As much as Louis feels at home now, growing up in Rosedale Abbey hadn’t been a picturesque countryside childhood. Looking back on everything with a different perspective helps him to understand it, but at the time, Louis had felt so trapped in spite of the endless moors surrounding him. Being suspected of having various attention deficit disorders but never diagnosed with any had probably only contributed to him acting up in school and at home, terrorising his teachers and grandmother. 

It had only gotten worse as he’d entered his teenage years, the isolation and lack of other teenagers – besides Liam – making him feel even more trapped, even more caged in, resulting in a number of reckless stunts including a hijacked truck, a car-sized hole in Mr Hough’s shed and forty-seven very drunk and very underage hours in Leeds, where he’d been picked up by a guy who’d looked a little like Michael Carrick. 

Having to be picked up by his grandmother because he’d blown his last fiver on a pack of fags he’d then felt too sick to smoke hadn’t been his proudest moment, but it didn’t make him less stupid, only a bit smarter in how to conduct his nightly escapades. 

The only reason Louis hadn’t flunked his A-Levels had been down to the simple fact that getting into university had been – in his opinion – his only way of escaping a life of boredom and mediocrity in Rosedale Abbey. But that – well. That hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. 

Louis has done some growing up since then, has had the time to grow into himself and come to terms with the fact that this little patch in the middle of nowhere is just where he belongs. He wouldn’t go so far as to call himself happy – but Louis is content. He’s stopped feeling resentful about things he can’t change and he’s learned to stop blaming everyone around him for, well… being the way he is. It’s harder without his grandmother here and it’s even harder because they hadn’t parted on good terms, but the village has given him a second chance and he’s determined to prove himself. 

The clouds are still hanging low when Louis walks down the main road to the Inn after his morning walk, but they’re not as heavy nor as dark as the previous days, so Louis hopes it’s going to stay dry for a while longer. He needs to sort out his firewood and clear out the shed, get a few things outside ready for winter, and he’d prefer not to get soaked whilst doing that. Puck is trailing him, a still-twitching grouse in his muzzle, which has diminished Louis’ appetite substantially. His dog seems really bloody pleased with himself, and Louis guesses Geoff will be too; maybe pluck and stuff the bird and serve it to the small number of guests who still remain. 

Geoff is very happy to take the grouse, even if Puck is not happy to have to let go of it – probably knowing that he’s not going to get a bite – and Louis accepts the towel Liam passes him over the counter while he fires up the coffee machine, ridding his hands and then his dog of bloody bird feathers. Which means he is under-caffeinated and unsuspecting when a jarringly familiar voice he never expected to hear again reaches his ears. 

“Louis!” 

He shoots up, Puck yelping as Louis nearly falls over him, and when he turns around, Louis’ heart jumps up into his throat. What he sees makes his jaw drop and he can’t do anything but stare with wide eyes. And he guesses Karen was right; that’s an awfully posh coat sitting on shoulders that are slightly broader than he remembers. Then again, it’s probably been five years. Louis has changed as well, although not for the better. 

“Harry?” He can feel Liam’s gaze burning against the back of his neck, but Louis can’t get anything else out and he can’t move. His heart is still sitting in his throat. 

Harry smiles and bridges the last couple of feet between them, and is suddenly so close that Louis can smell a subtle, earthy aftershave that’s still like a punch to his senses, sending him straight back to that dingy and draughty room in Manchester; those eight square metres he’d loved and loathed at the same time with the dirty carpet and wonky chair and the squeaky mattress that could be heard throughout the entire flat whenever he and Harry – 

“God, it’s so good to see you,” Harry says and for a split second, he hesitates, seemingly unsure of himself, which is an odd look on him. But then he goes in for the hug he didn’t appear sure he wanted to give, and Louis finds himself enveloped in arms that are stronger and more solid than he recollects. Yet perhaps it’s his mind playing tricks on him; perhaps his memory is faulty and full of holes. 

His arms remain stiff at his sides and when Harry releases him again after a moment, Louis still can’t do anything but stare. His jaw is also sharper, more pronounced, and it suits him, makes him look almost regal, and he’s polished and put together from head to toe; from the curls that are long enough to brush past his shoulders to a soft charcoal jumper and tight, tight jeans complimented by shiny black boots. And – he looks good. 

He looks out of place. 

“What are you doing here?” Louis feels breathless. He feels…he’s not quite sure, actually, because this isn’t a scenario he ever imagined could become reality and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. The last thing he’d said to Harry was “see you Saturday,” and on Friday, he’d left for Rosedale Abbey and never looked back. He doesn’t understand why Harry is still smiling – why Harry would be happy to see him. 

Harry stays close; close enough that Louis can get a whiff of subtle but earthy cologne. “Well, um,” he starts and pulls his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, “for work, actually. I write for the _The Guardian._ And, like, this isn’t usually my area, but Janet, you see, she was supposed to drive here, but then she got kidney stones. At least, I think it’s kidney stones, and my boss couldn’t get anyone else to cover and I only had a few pieces to write on the side, so he sent me instead and then I remembered that you once mentioned you were from around here and so I asked around for you, because, well…” And he trails off, smile faltering a little when he takes in Louis’ rather blank expression. “I thought we could catch up.” 

“Catch up,” Louis repeats numbly. “You want to catch up.” His mind is reeling, hung up on ‘ _I write for The Guardian’_ and _‘I remember that you once mentioned’_ , and he’s hot all of a sudden, neck burning and prickling with a heat he remembers from when he was little and got caught lying or messing up. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, but not as confidently as he’s been until this point. “It’s – I mean, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

“I guess so,” Louis agrees absentmindedly. “I just – I don’t think –” and that’s when Liam steps out behind the counter, shirt stretching over his chest and biceps as he positions himself slightly in front of Louis and between him and Harry, sensing Louis’ discomfort. 

“How about you back off a little, mate,” Liam tells Harry before draping a heavy arm over Louis’ shoulders and pulling him close. Harry’s eyes follow the movement, widening slightly as they zero in on Liam’s hand curling around Louis’ upper arm. Louis can guess what Harry’s thinking, and it’s always been their intention when he and Liam had gone out together and Louis received attention he didn’t want. But this is Harry. Even given everything that’s happened, Louis doubts that he could ever not want Harry’s attention, despite his better judgement. 

“It’s okay, Liam,” Louis says and steps out of his embrace, but Harry’s gaze continues to flicker between him and Liam. “Um…Liam, this is Harry. Harry, Liam.” 

They share a handshake with tight-lipped smiles and all Louis wants now is for Liam to leave and for Harry to leave as well. He wishes Harry hadn’t come here in the first place, actually. 

“So, how do you know Louis?” Liam asks before Louis can stop him, walking back behind the counter to presumably make another cup of coffee. China clanks, the coffee machine grinds and steams and Puck is vying for attention, snaking around his calves, but Louis doesn’t look. 

Harry used to be quite the open book, but when he locks eyes with Louis now, there’s not a lot Louis can decipher. Casually leaning against the counter and shaping his body into a gentle curve, Harry raises his right brow. 

“We dated. At university.” 

“Briefly,” Louis adds. 

Harry’s mouth twitches. “For thirteen months,” he disagrees, gaze firm and unrelenting. 

Liam lets out a drawn-out whistle as he sets two cups of coffee down for them. “Louis never mentioned,” he says. “Milk and sugar?” 

“Two sugars, no milk,” Harry replies, finally turning his head. “Thank you.” He takes a seat at the bar and stirs the sugar Liam hands him into his coffee, spoon clanking against the brim of the cup. Liam disappears into the kitchen, door swinging shut behind him and Louis takes a silent but deep breath, staring at the ceiling for a stretched-out second before he regains his composure. 

Turning to his own steaming drink, Louis stays on his feet and ignores Puck pulling at the hem of his jumper, growing impatient because he doesn’t have his grouse and he’s not getting his breakfast either. Louis appeases him by scratching his ears, and takes a sip of his coffee, fingers feeling stiff when they close around the cup. Harry’s presence still shakes him up and makes his insides twist, but he’s had a couple of years to get a grip on his feelings. He’s perfectly able to do this. 

“What do you want, Harry?” he asks, glad that his voice isn’t wavering, and continues to stare at the trembling surface of his coffee. 

Harry takes a moment to answer. “What do I –” he stops short. “I just told you, I’m here for work. I –” 

“No, Harry,” Louis cuts him off. “What do you want from _me_?” He turns his head and narrows his eyes at Harry’s confused expression. “Do you want to interrogate me? See if you can lure a couple of secrets out of me because the police aren’t talking to you? Find a few fillers for your article about the murder village?” 

Harry actually looks stunned for a few beats, lips parted and blinking at Louis like he didn’t expect him to accuse him of that. But Harry catches himself. “No, Christ, of course not. Why would you think that?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Louis throws back at him, “maybe because it’s been five years of radio silence and –” 

“And that’s my fault?”

It’s probably louder than intended, but considering how it just broke out of Harry, Louis guesses this is closer to his actual feelings than everything he has said up until this point. It’s closer to what Louis would have expected from him. It’s probably what he deserves as well. 

Harry’s nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath and grips his cup so hard Louis is worried it might break. His jaw is firmly set, clenching with tension, and he looks genuinely distressed. Louis should feel worse about this entire thing, but – well. He’s had time. 

“Look,” Harry starts, obviously forcing his voice to remain calm and quiet, “I was sent here to write an article. I’m only here for a few days and I thought, why not be mature about this? I said to myself, sure, he pissed off without a word, changed his number and dropped off the radar, but it’s been a couple of years. Why not act like grown-ups and have coffee and a chat about the good old days,” he adds with a self-deprecating smile. “Although I guess that’s what we’re doing right now.” 

Louis has spent a large part of his life being a bit of a dick, but this still makes him feel awful. “I’m sorry,” he exhales and looks at Harry timidly. “I just – with everything that’s going on here, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Really?” Harry chuckles dryly. “You stood me up then and you’re standing me up now? Well, that’s just cruel. Come on. Why not have dinner tonight?” 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Louis says again, with a sigh. “I really am sorry for what happened and how I acted, but I had my reasons then, and I have them now.” 

Harry regards him silently for a minute or so, twirling his cup on the wooden countertop. He looks warm, and soft, and Louis’ fingers twitch with the urge to touch, but he’s been anti-social for such a long time that human contact isn’t part of his routine anymore. It’s strange, because he used to be so tactile, especially with Harry, and to feel an echo of that now is like touching a hotplate. It burns. 

“It’s just dinner, Lou.” 

Louis lets out a shaky breath, because it’s never just dinner, particularly when it means dinner with Harry. It’s yet another can of worms that really doesn’t need to be opened. Louis already feels like he’s strung up with very frail string and pairing that with Harry’s usual dose of genuine interest and sincerity is a bad idea. 

Then again, Louis has never been good at saying no to him. 

“Fine,” he relents with a tight smile and finishes his coffee, putting the cup down with enough force for Liam to hear it from the kitchen. “Eight o’clock tonight, right here, don’t be late.” And he doesn’t give Harry the chance to respond in any way before he walks past him, into the hallway and straight out the door, Puck on his heels.

 

  

He makes it halfway to his house before his stomach twists and he nearly throws up on his shoes.

 

  

After fifty messages from Liam, Louis switches off his phone and throws it onto his bed. He feels sick and his heart hasn’t stopped racing all day. Even carrying what felt like a ton of firewood from the shed into the utility room hadn’t managed to distract him, and now he’s anxious, sweaty and wet from an hour-long walk in the pouring rain, and aching from head to toe. And he has to meet Harry in an hour. 

Louis nearly breaks his neck trying to peel off the jeans that are stuck to his thighs and then get caught on his socks while he hobbles to the bathroom with a towel around his neck. His skin looks like a feathered chicken, because he’s still not gotten the wood burner going, so the tiles in the bathroom are like blocks of ice as well. He drops his jumper and towel onto the ground and steps into the cubicle. 

The water takes a few seconds to get warm, but Louis grits his teeth and doesn’t move out of the spray, the shock to his system a surprisingly pleasant one. He tips his head back once the temperature has risen and wipes his hands over his face, applying a pressure he hopes will push away the image of Harry that suddenly seems to be tattooed to the back of his eyelids. Muttering out a silent curse, Louis ignores the stirrings in his belly and methodically starts washing his hair and his body, letting his mind drift to the conversation he will undoubtedly share with Harry. 

Louis just doesn’t know what to say to him, is the thing. If Harry wants closure, Louis doesn’t think he will be able to provide him with a satisfying explanation on why he did what he did. And there’s not much else Louis can talk about. Harry’s writing for _The Guardian_ and all Louis does day in and day out is trot through the muddy countryside. He’s not ashamed that this is his life, but – well. It’s not of any interest to Harry and Louis isn’t particularly fond of awkward silences. 

But he doesn’t want to talk about his life. He doesn’t want to hear about Harry’s either, if he’s being honest. 

Louis turns off the faucet and reaches for his towel, tying it around his waist. He should probably shave, but he doesn’t want Harry to think he’s putting any effort or thought into this dinner, which is probably why he shouldn’t be standing in front of his wardrobe once he is back in his bedroom, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to wear. 

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” he tells himself with a huff, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach out for anything. Louis’ not got much choice, to be fair. He used to invest quite a lot of time and money in his appearance, but lately, there’s not really been a need to dress up. He only owns a few pairs of jeans, which haven’t fit properly since his grandmother died, grief and stress diminishing his appetite indefinitely, a handful of washed out t-shirts and sweatshirts, and some generic jumpers. Puck is judging him silently from his spot on the rug by Louis’ bed. 

“I don’t need to impress him,” Louis adds as a reminder and, after a deep breath, grabs a black jumper and a pair of grey jeans that might have been black a few dozen washes ago. “One dinner, and then he’ll be gone again, and everything can go back to normal.”

 

 

Louis doesn’t bother with an umbrella, so when he walks through the Inn’s front door, his jacket is dripping and his shoes are soaked. He’s also fifteen minutes late. Karen’s got her hands on her hips, standing only a few feet away from the door, and is very unimpressed with him flooding the floor. Louis pushes the hood off his head, hair still slightly damp from his shower, and pulls his arms out of his sleeves. 

“Give me that, darling,” Karen tuts and ushers him into the large main room, taking his jacket, “I’ll hang this by the wood burner, else it won’t be dry by the time you head home. Wouldn’t want you to catch your death. It’s dreadful out there.” 

“Thanks,” Louis tells her and refrains from craning his neck to see where Harry is sitting. He’d changed another three times before settling on the black jumper and grey jeans again, and part of him regrets not shaving because now Karen is looking at his scruff disapprovingly. 

“Now,” she says and lowers her voice, taking a hold of his elbow and leaning in, “what’s this about some boyfriend Liam’s told me about?”

Louis isn’t very good at keeping quiet, so, “Liam needs to shut up,” slips out before he can stop it. “Sorry!” he adds hurriedly when Karen pinches his arm. “Sorry. But – there’s no boyfriend. I know Harry from uni. We’re catching up, and then he’s leaving. Hopefully.” 

“Journalist, hm? You sure know how to pick them, love.” 

Then she pecks his cheek and disappears into the back room. Louis takes a deep breath before turning to face the dining room on the left; dark red carpets, heavy curtains and three polished chandeliers that dip everything into a warm glow. Mr. and Mrs. Whitworth are sitting at the same table they sit at every Friday, in the corner on the far right, their backs bent from years of working in the fields and the deep lines on their faces only accentuated by the dim light. Their oldest son Hamish runs the day-to-day business now, together with his wife Nichola and his brother Thomas. Miss Rowbotham, who manages the miniscule public library, is sitting by the fireplace with one of her old tomes open next to a steaming bowl of soup. And at the bar to Louis’ right, chatting with Geoff over some pints and peanuts is Mr. Lloyd, the owner of their local bakery, with his son, David. 

This is Louis’ home, and these people are his family. And Harry has no place here. 

Harry’s eyes are very green and remain focused on Louis as he walks up to the table Harry’s occupying in the far left corner of the dining room. If it were anything but pitch-black outside, they would be able to see the entire village and the sloping hills, the edge of the plateau and perhaps even the dark remains of the mines. But now, there are only drops of rain hitting the windows in rapid succession, pearling down the glass and turning into little streams. 

Louis’ knees feel weak. He hurries and sits down opposite Harry before he can get up, crossing his ankles beneath the table, two candles burning in the centre of it. There’s a smile tickling at the corners of Harry’s mouth, lips curving up only minimally, and he looks calm and relaxed, leaning back in his chair, one elbow up on the cushioned armrest. He’s wearing a patterned shirt that looks more expensive than anything Louis owns and he’s still got that cluster of necklaces dangling around his neck and brushing his skin, because apparently, he’s yet to figure out what buttons are for. Louis used to enjoy that particular trait of Harry’s quite a lot, but now, it’s an unwanted distraction. 

“I thought you might stand me up again,” Harry, says and Louis lets his pleasantly deep voice wash over him for a moment before he replies. 

“I figured it would be easier to just get this over with.” 

Harry chuckles and shakes his head, rubs his index and middle finger over his smooth forehead. “Jesus, you still know how to flatter a guy, huh?” 

Louis shrugs. “Pretty sure you’ve got enough people flattering you these days,” he says, not meaning to sound bitter and harsh, and he hopes it doesn’t come across that way, but Harry furrows his brows, sitting up straight. He opens his mouth to reply, but before he gets the chance, someone steps up to their table. 

“Hi, Louis.” 

“Hey, Lauren.” He turns away from Harry and smiles at her. “No babysitting tonight?” 

“No, thank God,” Lauren says and rolls her eyes, her nose ring glinting in the light. “Delia is like, really into Justin Bieber right now, and it makes me want to kill myself.” Cocking her narrow hips, an Iron Maiden t-shirt peeking out from behind her apron, she taps a pen against her notepad. “By the way, mum wanted to talk to you about something and –” She breaks off, eyes flickering to Harry and back. 

“Tell her I’ll come round some time tomorrow morning,” Louis tells her quickly before she can stumble over her own tongue. 

“Awesome. Can you bring Puck?” she asks as if she doesn’t know that Louis doesn’t go anywhere without his bloody dog. 

Louis nods. “Sure. And I’ll have the usual.” 

“You wanna hear the specials?” Lauren turns to Harry and raises one precisely shaped brow like she’s begging him to say no. “Soup of the day is something with butternut squash.” 

“That sounds lovely,” Harry says with a charming smile that doesn’t do anything to alter Lauren’s rather cool and assessing look. “I’ll have that. And a coke, please.” 

Lauren turns around, dragging her feet as she leaves. “She seems – cheerful,” Harry comments and Louis levels him with a look. “Well. Who’s Puck, then?” 

“My dog.” 

“Named after…the hockey thing?” 

Louis huffs. “Named after Shakespeare’s _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.” 

Harry smiles and leans back again, playing with one of the rings on his right hand. Absentmindedly, Louis wonders if one of those rings is an engagement ring, if one might even be a wedding band, but he pushes those thoughts down along with the misplaced and irrational jealousy he feels thinking about it. 

“That was always your favourite, wasn’t it? I never really got why.” He hums and wets his lips and Louis can’t help but let his haze flicker to them. “How did it go again? _The course of true love never did run smooth?”_

Louis remains quiet for a moment, only the clanking of Miss Rowbotham’s spoon and some distant conversation seeping into the room from the separate kitchen. It would be ideal timing were Lauren to come back in with their drinks, but of course she stays away, most likely filling Karen in on details she deems relevant. It won’t be long before the entire village knows about this. 

“What can I say? It speaks to me.” 

Harry laughs, “I’m sure it does. I’ve always preferred _Twelfth Night_.” Lauren comes back and puts their drinks down on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis can see Liam and Karen peeking around the kitchen door. Harry has a sip of his coke before speaking up again. “Do you still write, then?” 

“I don’t,” Louis answers curtly, and he knows this is a subject Harry won’t drop, so he nips at his cider to wet his throat and steel himself a little. 

Harry seems taken aback. “Seriously? Why?” 

“I just don’t.” 

A fine line appears between Harry’s brows and he tilts his head slightly to the side, curls brushing over the smooth fabric of his shirt. “But you loved it,” he says, “and you were so good at it as well. That short screenplay you wrote in First Year was genius. Why did you stop?” 

“Because sometimes,” Louis says, looking down at his lap, “things don’t work out the way you want them to. That’s just the way it is.” 

“But –” 

“Harry,” he cuts him off, “just give it a rest, okay? I don’t need you to be upset on my behalf. I’m quite content with the way things are. Five years is a long time. People change.” 

“That much?” Harry raises a questioning eyebrow, and Louis knows they’re treading on the edge right now, and he also knows that Harry wants to push them over. “This doesn’t sound like you at all.” 

He doesn’t want to respond to that. He wants to push back his chair, get up and tell Karen to pack up his dinner so he can take it home and watch it in front of the TV with his dog curled up by his feet. Louis doesn’t want to be cross-examined. 

“Well, then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.” 

It’s a low blow. And the Harry he knew would have risen to the bait, exploded all over Louis in trying to prove him wrong, coming up with all the things he knew about Louis. This Harry stays absolutely calm and silent at first, no visible change in his composure. 

“Don’t do this, Louis,” Harry sighs after a minute and he seems – tired is the wrong word, and exhausted isn’t quite right either. Resigned, perhaps. 

“Don’t do what?” Louis shoots back. 

“This –” Harry raises his right hand in a sweeping motion before dropping it into his lap again. “This entire act,” he clarifies with a sour expression. “Saying I don’t know you, telling me not to care, acting like we didn’t –” and he breaks off, looks to the side and clenches his jaw, struggling with his composure all of a sudden. Louis can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Don’t act like we didn’t matter. Like thirteen months didn’t matter to you. Like we weren’t in –” This time, he doesn’t go on. His eyes remain steely and glued to the white tablecloth. 

Louis swallows thickly and tries to ignore the way his chest suddenly feels very constrained. “Do you want me to apologise again?” 

“No, Louis, I don’t want an apology,” Harry throws at him. “I want an explanation. I want you to explain, because maybe then I’ll understand what the fuck happened to you.” 

And that’s exactly what Louis can’t give to him; what he’s been dreading and probably afraid of. He can’t tell Harry the truth, and he doubts that a filtered-down version of events will satisfy Harry. Louis has spent way too many hours going over various stories in his own head in case he ever needed to explain it, and despite thinking he’d never see Harry again, Louis has kept his phone number scribbled down on a piece of paper between two pages of an old book he has in his bedside table. He’s had moments of weakness. He’s wanted to call Harry a few times to explain himself, maybe, maybe not. 

The point is, whatever story Louis could come up with in his head, it’s not the truth. Harry deserves nothing but the truth. And that’s not possible. Louis can’t do that. But now he’s being put on the spot. 

“It’s complicated,” he settles on, knowing it’s a clichéd thing to say and won’t appease Harry at all. 

“Is it?” Harry shakes his head, lips pressed together in a tight line. “I don’t really care if it’s complicated? Because, you see – we had a lecture together on Friday and I wanted to take you out to dinner, and you said you’d made plans with Niall, and to go out Saturday instead. And then Saturday rolled around and I didn’t hear from you all day, so I texted you, and you didn’t reply. I called you, and you didn’t answer. So I walked to halls, used the spare key you’d made, and your room was empty. No note, no message, nothing. You were just _gone_.” 

Louis doesn’t flinch, but he grinds his teeth together and looks at the way his hands are trembling in his lap. Because he remembers it even more clearly than Harry, his phone ringing and waking him up in the middle of the night, Liam’s name flashing over the screen and Geoff on the other end when Louis had picked up, not even entirely lucid yet. And he hadn’t really had time to think after that. He’d gotten up, packed all his belongings into a suitcase and a large backpack and gone to the station, taking the first train even before the sun had gone up. Louis remembers getting to Pickering in the early morning hours on Saturday, Liam waiting at the station to take him to Rosedale Abbey, and he’d felt exhausted, tired and terrified, and so damn heartbroken because he’d known he wasn’t going back, and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to say goodbye. 

“My grandmother died that Friday,” Louis tells Harry eventually, throat feeling tight, watching his eyes widen. “I didn’t really think much about anything. I just – I had to leave, and I knew I was probably not coming back. So I figured a clean cut would be best.” 

“Lou, I’m so sorry,” Harry says and he sounds genuine. “Why didn’t you just tell me, though? I don’t get it. I would’ve – I would have understood. Or at least tried to. Because it might’ve been a clean cut for you, but it wasn’t for me.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Harry heaves a sigh. “Louis, I don’t want you to apologise. I just want to understand. You never mentioned your family, or Liam, or your grandmother, and whenever you talked about your home you – you sounded unhappy. So forgive me for not really getting why you’d give up everything and never look back.” 

Of course it’s then that Lauren comes back with their food, but Louis has lost his appetite. Normally, he’d happily walk many miles for Karen’s Yorkshire pudding, but now all he can do is grab his fork and push potatoes around on his plate. Harry isn’t touching his soup either. It seems like this is something they need to get done first. 

“I’ve not seen my mother since I was three, maybe four. My grandmother was all I had, and I was all she had. I had no choice but to come back. And – yeah, I hated being here when I was growing up. But you know what they say, distance makes the heart grow fonder, or something. I wanted to stay.” 

Harry dips his spoon into the soup and swirls it through the cream topping, white mixing with bright orange. “Or something,” he repeats with a bitter note. “Listen, I get it, okay? I get why you wanted to go home, but I don’t get why you felt you couldn’t just tell me. You’re acting like I was some random fling, when actually –” Harry pauses and clears his throat awkwardly, refusing to meet Louis’ eyes. Laughter filters through to them from the bar and glasses clank together, but it’s all white noise fuzzing in Louis’ ears. 

“I was so in love with you,” Harry eventually goes on, successfully knocking all air out of Louis’ lungs, “and we were planning on moving in together. You met my family. And I thought we wanted the same things. Then you left, and I spent months going through every single thing I’d ever said to you because I thought it must’ve been something I’d done. I thought, he wouldn’t just leave for no reason. And I was so worried.” He takes a deep breath. “We could have made it work. Instead of running away and changing your number, we could have worked something out.” 

“I knew you’d say that,” Louis acknowledges. “But it wasn’t that simple.” His brain is running in overdrive and he’s terrified of accidentally giving something away, terrified of Harry continuing to prod and ask. “You’ve seen this place now. And I’ll probably spend the rest of my life here, because this is my home, and the people here are my family, and I’ve got responsibilities I can’t just leave behind. It wouldn’t have been fair to you if I’d strung you along for another few months before we’d both realised that this wasn’t working out,” and Louis really means that. He catches Harry’s eyes. “It doesn’t mean I didn’t care. It’s probably not good enough now, but I did. And I really am sorry.” 

Harry holds his gaze for a drawn-out moment in which neither of them says anything and Louis barely manages to breathe. Across the room, Mr. and Mrs. Whitworth are ordering desert and Miss Rowbotham is starting on her second bottle of wine. 

Suddenly, Harry lets out a dry chuckle. “This doesn’t feel like closure, does it?” 

Louis blinks at him. “Is that what you wanted? Closure?” 

“I’m not sure,” Harry shrugs. “I guess I wanted some answers. And I did want to catch up. Still do.” 

“Well, then,” Louis says and finally has a bite of lukewarm pastry, “tell me about your fancy job. Any luck with research so far?” 

Harry pulls a face and empties his coke. “Not really. I’ve interviewed Inspector James, but he’s only told me what’s already in the papers, so that won’t cut it. They’re keeping mum about everything from cause of death to list of suspects. And I’ve tried talking to a few locals, but they just told me to get lost.” 

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Louis comments, feeling very relieved and just slightly smug. Nobody in this village is going to talk to journalists. And he’s pretty sure the reason the police aren’t talking about cause of death or suspects is because they’re just as baffled and lost as everyone else. “We don’t really like strangers here.” 

“That message came across, yeah,” Harry says. “But my editor has given me a couple of days, so I’ll see what happens. Thought about having a look around the mines tomorrow.” 

“Don’t go there.” 

Harry stops his spoon halfway to his mouth. “What? Why?” 

Louis looks down at his plate and pushes his pudding through gravy, watches as the dark sauce soaks into the pastry, making it soggy. “Because we tell the children there are goblins hiding in the ruins, with sharp and pointy teeth, who eat anyone who gets lost.” 

For a moment, Harry just stares at him with raised brows and wide eyes, soup dripping off his spoon. Then a loud cackle curls past his lips, prompting everyone in the room to turn their heads in their direction. 

“Goblins,” Harry chuckles, shaking his head and smiling so wide his dimples cut deep into his mildly reddened cheeks. “Sure. I’ll look out for those.” 

 

 

The rest of their dinner passes with benign conversation about things that don’t particularly matter, mostly consisting of Harry telling a few stories from work. Louis, as always, has to rise with the sun the next day, so he excuses himself just past eleven o’clock. Harry walks him to the front door after Louis has retrieved his jacket from the kitchen, ignoring Karen’s questions, and the hug they share is brief, but it’s not one-sided anymore. 

As Louis makes his way up the muddy road towards his house, where Puck is undoubtedly already waiting by the door, he glances upward and towards the horizon where sloping hills blur into the sky. 

There’s a light gleaming in the distance.

 

 

***

 

_to be continued..._

 

 


	2. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I get that it’s complicated,” Liam says after Louis has gulped down almost the entire bottle. He remains on his feet, subconsciously starts pacing, and he can feel Liam’s gaze following him. “But you don’t need to isolate yourself.”
> 
> Louis nearly laughs at that. He gets that Harry can’t exactly understand why Louis is acting this way, but Liam should get it. Liam should understand that like his grandmother, Louis doesn’t exactly have a choice in the matter, probably – no, definitely even more so. 
> 
> “Don’t I? Because I don’t see how I’m supposed to maintain a normal relationship without the other person thinking I’m fucking nuts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> repeatedly listened to [boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xl6IaSvyIOk) by emma louise, [when you break](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qhX1AZCo2Sg) by bear's den, and [what are you asking me?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZk5FIdWVIs) by james newton howard. 
> 
> i have moved a section of the river wharfe, which is in the yorkshire dales and not the moors, called [the strid](http://www.yorkshire-dales.com/strid.html) to rosedale abbey. it's equally creepy and fascinating and you should definitely read up on it if you're interested. 
> 
> thanks as always goes to [geeb](http://genuinelybelieve.tumblr.com), who is brilliant and fantastic and the best.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the few original characters that float around in the background. This is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities with reality are unintended and incidental.
> 
>  **WARNINGS** for this chapter: non-graphic description of a corpse, non-graphic mentions of blood and intestines, lots of swearing.

***

 

CHAPTER II.

 

 

The next day’s dawn breaks with a tension in the air that makes Louis feel very uncomfortable. There’s a silence to the moors in the early hours of the morning and even Puck is subdued, never straying far from Louis’ side as they take their usual route over the plateau. It’s eerie, even for a place that gets written about in all kinds of gloomy novels. Louis expects to smell something foul again when he crosses the path leading to the mines, but the air remains sharp and crisp, cold enough to burn his throat. 

Mrs. Harvey greets him in a sweater that screams eighties and a cup of steaming tea, Puck already worming past his legs in search of Lauren, Delia, and little Bobby, who tend to feed him so many biscuits that he’s usually sick all over Louis’ carpet before noon. Louis makes a mental note to keep Puck in the kitchen until well after lunchtime and, whilst drinking his tea, listens to Mrs. Harvey talk about a new glassblowing business that’s opened up in Helmsley and the family’s plans to perhaps go camping in the Lake District come spring. Only when he sets his empty cup down does the lightness drop from the homey kitchen, getting replaced with a tense silence that is only broken when Mrs. Harvey gets up, dragging the legs of her chair across the tiles. 

Without a word, she gets up and heads to the small but airy conservatory where the back door leads into the generous garden. There are a few pairs of dirt-crusted boots and empty flowerpots standing on the terraced section, some weeds poking through cracks in the stones. With quick but – strangely enough – also timid and unsure strides, Mrs. Harvey makes her way down the stretch of damp grass until Louis realises they’re heading to the small shed and paddock where the Harveys keep their chickens and goats. Their garden is also cut in half by the river and when Lauren was born, they’d had a short, wooden fence built so that kids wouldn’t accidentally fall into the water. 

Now, there is a sizeable chunk of fence missing, wooden planks lying on the grass, splinters sticking to the ground. Mrs. Harvey stops a few yards away from the debris and folds her arms in front of her chest. She remains quiet, knowing that she doesn’t need to explain anything to Louis. 

“When did this happen?” he asks, taking a few careful steps ahead, ground squelching beneath his boots. 

“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Harvey replies wearily, “but it was like this yesterday morning. Delia wanted to feed the chickens and saw it first. I’ve not – I’m not letting my children out here again.” She sounds fierce and terrified and when Louis turns to look at her, her eyes are wide, her features full of worry. 

“That’s probably a good idea. We should all be more careful.” 

“I just don’t understand,” she says, wringing her pale hands. “We’re not doing anything different from before and –” 

“I don’t know either,” Louis quickly cuts her off before she can work herself into a frenzy. This is not her doing. This has nothing to do with them. “But I’m working on it, I promise. And I promise I’ll take care of it.” 

Mrs. Harvey chews on her lips, her eyes darting to the shed a few feet away and Louis can tell that she’s mulling something over in her head. “There’s a goat missing as well,” she presses out after a minute and unlaces her fingers, rubs her hands up and down her own arms to suppress a chill that has nothing to do with this dreadful weather. 

“What?” 

She shakes her head, almost to herself. “We always put them in the shed at night, especially when it’s raining, but after this, well – I wanted to make sure they’re all right. The day before yesterday we had four. Now there are only three. I checked the shed and the locks and nothing is broken and…” Mrs. Harvey trails off and Louis can tell that despite managing to keep her composure mostly intact, she is deeply disturbed by the happenings. 

Louis doesn’t place a hand on her elbow to comfort her. He knows he’s not the person to do it. Instead, he tells her, “Why don’t you go back inside and have another cuppa, maybe give Liam a ring to fix the fence while it’s still light out? I’ll have a look around; see if there’s anything I can do now.” 

She considers it for a moment, then nods her head. “Thank you, Louis.” 

He sends her a tight smile. “Not for this,” he says, and watches her turn around and walk back into the house with heavy steps. Louis waits for a moment, breathes in and out, before he walks closer to the fence to inspect the surrounding area. It has rained so much over the last day and a half that all traces that could have meant something are most likely washed away already, so he steps around the pieces of wood, ignoring the shed for now, and heads to the edge of the river. 

It’s almost gurgling over the edges, almost breaching the stony shore, black rocks and boulders overgrown with moss wet and shimmering in the dim light that just about manages to break through the low-hanging clouds. From afar, it’s a small and inconspicuous stream that cuts through the village, hardly worth noticing, and in some places narrow enough to leap over if one so dares. But Louis, and in fact everyone who lives in Rosedale Abbey, knows that it’s misleading, that there are three sections where the river is especially narrow so that the water, pressured down the valley with surprising force, has had no choice but to expand below the surface, carving endless caves and tunnels into stone and creating an undertow that is impossible to escape. 

It’s mostly tourists who try to jump and end up getting pulled under. But those bodies are never found. They don’t make a miraculous trip up a hill and lie down in front of the mines. 

Which is neither here nor there, Louis guesses, because as heartless as it is, he doesn’t particularly care about tourists. He cares about the people living here who are increasingly becoming more endangered, as it seems. Today it’s a missing goat; tomorrow it might be one of them. And Louis still doesn’t understand what’s happening. With a heavy sigh he walks right up to the edge and crouches down, thoughts drowned out by the loud gurgling of the river. He watches the rapidly moving and constantly twitching waves for a beat, sees his distorted reflection in the nearly black surface. Then he dips his hand into the water.

The shock of it is instant, so ice cold that it bites his skin, innumerable pinpricks stinging him. But his fingers don’t go numb. Louis waits, allows the stream to lap around his wrist, before he presses his palm against the smooth stone walls. 

It’s like feeling a pulse. 

Louis remains there until his calves start to ache slightly, but he doesn’t dry his hand once he pulls it out and straightens up again. He watches the drops fall from his fingertips, feels the water trickle over his skin and hit the ground soundlessly. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, he puts his fingers into his pocket and fumbles for the piece of chalk. It stains them white, becomes a tad softer when he closes his hand around it and leans down once more to draw onto the rocks. 

With the piece held in his fingers, he turns on his heels and makes his way to the backside of the shed that’s facing the river. The planks making it up are uneven; small gaps here and there, but not enough to explain the missing goat. Louis can hear the chickens inside, rummaging about and clucking away, sounds mixing with the steady rush of the stream. 

His fingers tighten around the chalk, and he gets to work.

 

 

“If you throw up later,” Louis tells his dog a while later as they’re starting on the route back to the house, “you’ll get no sympathy from me.” 

Puck looks at him as he trots along through the village that’s practically deserted this early on a Saturday morning, belly full of digestives and tail wagging. Louis really is looking forward to a lie-in the next day, maybe not getting out of bed at all and letting Puck run wild in the garden. He’s got a few books he needs to skim through anyway, and with his heating still not working properly (Liam mentioned something about the boiler being dodgy), that’s best done in a nest of blankets and armed with his thermos. 

He’s already fantasising about his day off and wondering if he’s got anything left of Karen’s lasagne, when he sees the tall figure with a sleek, black coat leave their local coffee shop. Louis digs his heels in and comes to a halt, knowing full well he’s being stupid, but he still considers turning straight back to avoid running into Harry. Before he can scold himself for the thought, Harry sees him and waves. 

“Fuck’s sakes,” Louis mutters under his breath. He can’t help but glance down to his muddy boots and his battered old jeans that are more holes than they are jeans, and he’s still not shaved and he probably smells like sweat and dirt and dog. 

He’s so unlike the person Harry met in Manchester, and he’s so unlike the person who sat down to dinner with him last night, because this is who he is now, and Louis is trying really hard not to let that bother him; he’s trying really hard not to care about what Harry thinks of him. But Harry’s all smiles and pink cheeks as he strides up to where Louis is still frozen to the spot.

  
“You’re up early,” Harry smiles and appears, much like Liam, far too chipper for this time of day. 

Louis clears his throat. “Just walking me dog.” 

“Oh, right,” Harry says and looks at Puck, who’s pressing his side into Louis’ leg. Normally, he’s quite friendly and will betray Louis for anyone who feeds him treats, but he’s not familiar with Harry and when Harry moves just an inch closer, he bares his teeth and lets out a growl. Harry pulls back immediately, eyes wide. 

“He doesn’t like strangers,” Louis explains and digs his fingers into the black, curly fur. “Don’t take it personal.” 

“I’ll try not to,” Harry replies, appearing a bit startled, gaze still directed at Puck. “How long have you had him?” 

Louis shrugs. “About four years now. Mr Bowes breeds ‘em, and his mum rejected him, so – felt right to take him in.” He can feel Harry’s eyes on him now, so he swallows down the lump in his throat at the memory of the tiny, shivering puppy he’d raised with a bottle. Liam keeps telling him that he can’t spend the rest of his life living in his house with no company but his dog, but Louis really wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d choose his dog over any person any day. 

“He’s beautiful,” Harry says and Louis can’t help but feel proud. 

He also can’t help talking to Puck. “You are, aren’t you?” he says and Puck looks up at him, wagging his tail like he’s got any bloody clue what Louis is even saying. “At least you will be once you’ve had a bath.” He clears his throat again and turns his focus back on Harry. “I should go.” 

“Oh.” Harry blinks. “No chance of you joining me for breakfast then?” 

“Sorry,” Louis replies, shaking his head and ignoring the pang of guilt that goes with it. “But he really does need a bath. And I have things to do. So.” 

But Harry can’t seem to take a hint. “How about dinner then? Or breakfast tomorrow? My treat.” 

Part of Louis doesn’t want Harry to take the hint. He’s loathing and enjoying the attention at the same time, but he’s also giving this whole rationality thing a go these days, and saying yes to Harry again would most likely cause him more problems than saying no a few more times. 

“Listen, Harry, dinner last night was fine –” 

“It was fun,” Harry interrupts him. 

“Dinner last night was _fun_ ,” he amends with a teasing roll of his eyes, “but it’s probably better if we just both go our own ways. You write your article and go back to London, and – I’ve got things to do as well. It was nice catching up, and it was nice seeing you again, but it’s just easier to - well, you know.” 

“Easier,” Harry repeats and his cheerful expression is very quickly turning sour. “Walking away was that easy for you?” 

Louis bites back a snappy response. Walking away from Manchester and everything he’d built there and everything he’d wanted his life to be – walking away from _Harry_ …it had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Of course it hadn’t been fucking easy and it’s not easy now to pretend that deep down he isn’t happy about seeing Harry again, but – the thing that’s easy is opening up to Harry. Because Harry worms himself into people’s hearts and he builds nests there and he refuses to ever vacate that space again. And the last thing Louis needs right now is Harry climbing back into that empty space and filling it and digging deep until he gets down to everything Louis has carefully kept buried. 

The sheer thought of it makes Louis feel so uneasy his hands start trembling at his sides. “I’m just saying,” he insists, only just refraining from grinding his teeth, “that it’s best if we just move on. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do than chat with me.” 

“Well,” Harry shrugs and drags the tip of his pointy and surprisingly shiny boot over concrete, “nobody is really interested in talking to me anyway. I’ve got a few interviews lined up with the coroner and Inspector James on Monday, and I was kinda hoping we could maybe reconnect a little over the weekend.” 

Louis hates himself for this. He does. Harry sounds hopeful and sincere and like Louis hasn’t been a complete arse to him. And it burns in his chest so painfully that he wants to tell Harry to grab his keys and get in the car and drive them to Manchester, to London, to any place that isn’t Rosedale Abbey, and pick up where they left off, if that’s even remotely possible. Five years ago, Louis wouldn’t have hesitated to get down on his knees and beg Harry to forgive him, to take him back, but it also makes him think of his grandmother, and the sacrifices she’d made throughout her entire life and – Louis really needs to stop complaining. He needs to stop thinking in hypotheticals, because he’s got to make sacrifices as well. He’s got no room to be selfish anymore. 

“Maybe I don’t want to reconnect,” and he tries to look Harry straight in the eyes as he says it. It feels like throwing up sandpaper. Louis half expects Harry to press on, to keep asking, to keep trying to change his mind, but Harry just presses his lips into a thin line and takes a few steps back, never breaking eye contact, but definitely cooling down his behaviour noticeably.

“You know,” he says after what feels like an eternity of standing in the middle of the silent village square, the crumbling church tower looming over them, “you’re not as good a liar as you think you are.” 

And with that, he walks past Louis, leaving only a whiff of his aftershave and freshly brewed coffee. Louis subconsciously holds his breath until he can’t hear Harry’s footsteps anymore before groaning out loud and rubbing both hands over his face, and subsequently smearing chalk all over it. 

He starts walking home after another moment, wondering if it’s too early to spike his tea with rum.

  

 

True to form, Liam shows up in the afternoon like he’s got a sixth sense for when Louis absolutely and under no circumstances wants to see anybody, including and sometimes especially Liam. Louis opens the door, rubbing his eyes because he’s just spent hours reading books with nearly faded or far too small text before looking at Liam with a frown. 

“What do you want?” 

Instead of a reply, Liam holds up a sixpack of Stella, and Louis steps aside to let him in. 

“I’d have preferred vodka, you know?” he says and follows Liam into the kitchen, the only room, thanks to the range, that isn’t absolutely damp and freezing. 

“Was it that bad?” Liam calls out over his shoulder, already rummaging through the drawers in search of the bottle opener, even though it’s been in the same bloody spot next to the bloody toaster since always. 

“Was what bad?” Louis responds, and sinks down onto a chair, lifts his feet and drops them on Puck who is lying underneath the table, still digesting the biscuits from earlier. Liam hands Louis a bottle and sits down opposite him, raising his prominent brows. 

“Your date?” 

“It wasn’t a date,” Louis groans, taking a sip of his beer. It tastes fucking disgusting, but then again, he’s not picky about what’s going to get him twatted tonight. 

Liam heaves out a sigh like Louis is the one who just invaded his space unannounced. “Okay, was your not-a-date that bad?” 

Louis huffs. “It was fine.” 

“You don’t look fine.” 

Louis can feel the start of a headache prodding at the base of his skull. “Of course I don’t look fine. Or didn’t you see what’s left of Mrs. Harvey’s fence? I don’t know what’s happening and I’m not getting anywhere near finding a solution for it and this bloody Officer keeps asking me questions like I’m the prime suspect. And on top of everything, Harry thinks we should reconnect and he wants to get to know me again. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I’m being an absolute twat to him because he can’t find out!” 

He empties nearly the entire bottle and slams it back down onto the table, trembling fingers flying to the label and starting to tear at it. Back in uni, Niall had joked about that being a sign of sexual frustration and Louis had laughed him off, because it certainly hadn’t been true then. It kind of is true now, added to some good old-fashioned frustration. He feels like everything is his fault. He feels like everyone is expecting something of him and he does nothing but disappoint. 

More importantly though, why didn’t Liam bring vodka? 

“I don’t want to pry, but…what happened between you and him?” 

Beneath the table, Puck lets out a high-pitched whine, followed by a few gurgling growls, probably dreaming of chasing more pygmy shrews and other very exciting rodents. Louis sighs. He doesn’t really want to rehash everything for Liam, but if he tells him, maybe Liam will let off, will stop blabbering to his mum, and Louis can have some peace, at least with regards to anything Harry-related. 

“I dumped him,” he explains after a beat. “Without really telling him, I guess. I mean, your dad called me in the middle of the night and I just wanted to get home. If I’d waited for Harry to wake up, to tell him I was leaving…” Louis shakes his head to himself, trying not to picture that scenario and how things might’ve been different if he’d done just that. “He would’ve wanted an explanation. And I would’ve given it to him, because I could never tell him no, and what then?” 

He pulls nearly half the label off in one go, balls it up and throws it over his shoulder and, gritting his teeth, gets to work on the other half. “He would’ve wanted to support me, maybe bloody drive me up here himself and I…I mean – what the hell was I supposed to do? So I left and I didn’t tell anyone and I feel fucking foul for doing it, but that was the only option.” 

Louis wants to grab a second bottle, but Liam moves it out of Louis’ reach with a concerned expression, lines appearing on his forehead when he pulls his brows together. “Do you still have feelings for him?” 

He wants to bury himself in his back garden, because Liam feeling the need to talk about feelings is never a good thing, at least not for Louis. He’s grateful, really, that Liam has outgrown his “no homo” phase, but he still overcompensates. Louis is very much gay, but he still enjoys burying his emotions until no daylight can reach them and never mention them to anyone, like every normal guy his age. 

Every normal guy except Liam, it seems. 

“That’s neither here nor there,” Louis settles on and by the way Liam continues to look at him, it doesn’t appease him. 

“I get that, but it’s not what I asked,” he tells Louis in a tone that sounds frighteningly like his mother. 

“I don’t know, okay?” Louis bites out, folding his arms and leaning back. He stares at the ceiling, counts the wooden beams and wonders distractedly if the kitchen needs a new layer of paint. It would certainly be a welcome distraction. “It just – it feels like unfinished business. That’s all I can say for now. But it’s probably better if it stays that way.” 

He pushes his chair back and rounds the table and grabs that second bottle of beer, because he doesn’t need to get up at dawn tomorrow and he can be as hungover as he fucking pleases. If Liam wants to talk Harry and feelings, Louis needs more alcohol. 

“I get that it’s complicated,” Liam says after Louis has gulped down almost the entire bottle. He remains on his feet, subconsciously starts pacing, and he can feel Liam’s gaze following him. “But you don’t need to isolate yourself.” 

Louis nearly laughs at that. He gets that Harry can’t exactly understand why Louis is acting this way, but Liam should get it. Liam should understand that like his grandmother, Louis doesn’t exactly have a choice in the matter, probably – no, definitely even more so. 

“Don’t I? Because I don’t see how I’m supposed to maintain a normal relationship without the other person thinking I’m fucking nuts.” 

“What about eventually telling him the truth?” Liam suggests carefully, but Louis shakes his head. 

“Yeah, not like the truth makes all of us seem less crazy.” 

Liam shrugs. “It’s not _that_ crazy if you think about it.” 

“No,” Louis corrects, “it’s not that crazy when you grow up with it. From the outside, it’d seem like this place were a holding pen for lunatics.” 

“Hm.” Liam pulls a face. “Okay, I guess you’re probably right. I just – I mean, don’t you think you can trust him?” 

Louis raises both his brows at Liam. “A journalist writing for _The Guardian_? I don’t think so.” 

And he hopes that’s the last he’ll hear about it.

  

 

Sunday starts exactly the way Louis wants it to. Puck lets him sleep until nine o’clock, and after letting him out into the garden and leaving the door open so he can get back inside, Louis gets back into bed with tea and a slice of toast. He doesn’t worry about crumbs, because he needs to wash the sheets anyway, so he pulls his laptop onto his lap, leans back and watches the repeat of _Match of the Day_. 

Rain starts to hit his bedroom windows when he runs out of things to watch and has no excuse not to get up and finally get dressed. There is one pair of sweatpants he can still deem clean enough to wear while he washes everything else that’s stuffed into his hamper in the corner. He pulls on a sweatshirt over the t-shirt he’s already wearing, picks up a few stray, dirty socks and takes his laundry downstairs into the utility room. He shoves everything into the machine and heads to the kitchen. 

Puck is in front of the fridge, licking what are probably biscuit crumbs off the floor. The tin Louis always keeps them in is lying right there as well – empty. 

Louis sighs. “That’s not really a balanced diet, you know?” he says and goes to get the hand broom from underneath the sink. 

Pushing Puck out of the way, Louis crouches down to clean up the remains of his last ginger snaps. He deposits it in the bin, puts the hand broom away and leans back against the counter, folding his arms in front of his chest. 

The light falling into the kitchen is dim, rain picking up outside and painting a grey, miserable picture that hardly changes this close to winter. Even in summer, the house, nestled against the hills, doesn’t get a lot of sun. With his grandmother gone, it’s lost its warmth as well, the veil of grief having never completely lifted, her small shelves of spices mounted to the far wall getting heavy with dust. There are drawers Louis never opens, pots he never uses, rooms he never sets foot in, heavy books in every corner that he never touches, afraid to disrupt – what, he isn’t sure. Around him, everything is slowly dying. 

And Louis doesn’t know how to stop it. 

His Nan would have known what to do. Maybe that’s what Louis is afraid of losing. Maybe that’s why he’s treating this house like a museum and not his home. Everything had so carefully been put into place by her over decades and she’d never gotten the chance to turn it over to him, they’d never gotten the chance to share last words and say goodbye, he’d never gotten to say sorry for everything he’d done, for how he’d blamed her, yelled at her, and run away without a single glance back. 

Louis runs a hand through his ruffled hair and thinks about the thick layer of dust in every room, the sheets covering most of the furniture and the dampness seeping through the mouldy roof like he’s subconsciously hoping that it’ll come crashing down during the night and bury him with the rest of the weight he’s carrying around. There’s a panic curling around in his chest that he hasn’t felt in five years, not since that one fateful phone call that had dragged him back to this place; this place that has haunted him his entire life, clinging to every inch of him. 

Making up every inch of him. 

Louis refuses to break down in his kitchen while his mind somersaults dangerously close to the edge. It’s not the time to be melodramatic about things he can’t change. He’s got matters to take care of, or at least try to, even though he has no idea where and how to begin and he is so much out of his depth that he’s this close to completely losing it. 

Digging his fingers into his sweatshirt, he looks up at the dark, hunched-over figure sitting on top of his fridge. “That was a family-size packet of ginger snaps,” he says, “and I won’t bother to get any new ones unless you keep your eyes and ears open and start helping me out here.” 

He doesn’t expect a response, and he doesn’t get one, but he sees the dark eyes sharpen and narrow. “Don’t look at me like that,” Louis goes on, not looking away. “I scratch your back, and you scratch mine.” 

The tiny, but nevertheless very pretty, cuckoo clock his grandmother had been given by the late Mrs. Meynell after a visit to Austria is ticking away quietly, Louis having disabled the sound of the miniscule wooden cuckoo that pops out every hour. Apart from that, everything remains silent. 

Louis sighs. “Just try, okay? That’s all I’m asking.” The windowpanes rattle in their frames. The next moment, he’s alone in the kitchen once more.

  

 

_Louis doesn’t have a lot of memories from when he was little, which comes as no surprise to him. But the first conscious memory he has is of his grandmother. She is standing in his doorway, wearing her fuzzy purple robe over gingham pyjamas, dark grey hair tied up in a loose knot, light from the corridor outlining her figure and falling right up to the carpet in front of Louis’ bed. Louis has his sheets pulled up to his nose. His feet are cold._

_“What’s wrong, Boo?” she asks with a calm and quiet voice, and steps into the room._

_Louis wipes his face defiantly because he doesn’t want her to know that he cried, pulls his arm out from underneath the duvet and points to his large double windows that show nothing but darkness._

_“There are monsters outside my window.”_

_His grandmother doesn’t close the door and she doesn’t switch on the light, but she walks up to his bed and sits down on the edge. With a soft and gentle touch, she brushes his hair off his sticky forehead and keeps her palm placed lightly against his cheek._

_“They aren’t monsters, Boo,” is what she tells him with the ghost of a smile. Were Louis older, he’d recognise the hint of sadness in her voice, in her eyes, in the way her fingertips skim the soft skin of his temple. “They are good spirits, watching over you.”_

_Louis’ eyes flicker over to the window again. He can’t see a thing, but he knows that they’re there. He can feel them. He can hear them whisper and scratch their nails down the glass. “If they’re good, why do they have pointy teeth? And dark lines on their skin?”_

_For a moment, his grandmother is struck silent. If Louis were paying more attention to her than the seemingly empty space outside his window, he might have viewed things differently. “I think that’s your imagination running away with you, sweetheart,” she says, turning his head away from the window and making him look at her. “I think no more Doctor Who for you before bedtime.”_

_“Nan,” Louis whines, pulling a face that makes her chuckle. “That’s not fair.”_

_“Well, then be a good boy and go to sleep. And maybe I’ll think about it. All right?”_

_He nods quickly. “All right. See?” he asks her and squeezes his eyes shut. “Already sleeping.”_

_She kisses his cheek and sits by his side until he falls asleep._

_As Louis grows up, the monsters don’t disappear. But he gets used to them. He learns not to be scared._  

 

 

His internal clock wakes him before sunrise, a heavy tome still open on his chest and his duvet tangled around his legs. He has to sneeze once, twice, startling Puck, who is curled up by his feet. Louis apologises to him and gets up to take a quick leak and wash his face. He can take a shower after their walk. 

Louis runs downstairs on quick and cold toes, checking on his washing and finding a dry pair of pants and jeans to take upstairs. By the time he’s brushed his teeth and pulled on a jumper and socks, Puck is wagging his tail by the door. It’s not raining, but the clouds are hanging low and it’s still dark and bitingly cold. It’s not like Louis isn’t used to it, but he still zips up his jacket and flips the collar up against the wind. 

It’s not particularly windy, he realises, when he leaves the village behind him and heads up the hill, but somehow, there is something buzzing and whirring in his ears. Puck, usually keen to walk ahead, once again stays right on his heel and when Louis pulls his body over the edge and is faced with open but nevertheless fading moors, it feels like someone is screaming into his ears. 

Almost doubling over, Louis presses his hands to his ears and clenches his teeth against the accompanying pain that suddenly shoots up behind his eyes, making them water. It’s just a walk, he tries to tell himself over the sounds in his head, pushing on and taking one step after the next, moving forward despite his legs suddenly being very close to not supporting his weight anymore. The throbbing between his temples slowly but steadily moves down his throat, making it hard to breathe, and when he’s dragged his aching body to the highest point of the plateau, to the small collection of rocks where he usually pulls out his chalk, it settles in his chest. It grabs his spine and it pulls and Louis bends forward, spits bile onto the ground and thinks – this is it. 

It’s not, because his heart’s beating and he’s breathing but it hurts, it _hurts_ , and for a moment, he can’t feel where his body ends and where it begins. Another scream echoes in his ears, chilling him down to his core and making him tremble. 

And suddenly, it’s quiet again. Suddenly, Louis can breathe, still bent over with his hands on his knees and feeling like he’s this close to spitting his liver onto the frozen ground. He takes a few rattling breaths, blinks in quick succession to regain normal vision, blindly reaches out for anything to hold on to when – 

“Louis!” 

He wants to turn his head, but it weighs too heavily. Puck’s black fur is a blur in his eye line and he’s pushing his cold, wet nose against Louis’ hand. It’s enough to keep jerking him back to reality in spite of something pulling, and pulling, and pulling and –

“Shit, Louis, are you okay?” Out of the blue, Harry is on his other side, crouching down and putting a solid hand onto his back. For a second, the touch stings and fizzles, burning through Louis jacket. 

Louis wants to tell Harry that he’s fine, but the words are stuck in his throat. His brain is scrambling to catch up with the rest of his body, reminding him how to breathe because for one reason or another, for a few seconds, Louis can’t remember for the life of him. For a brief moment, he doesn’t know how his lungs work. So when it comes back to him, all he can do is gulp in so much air that he nearly chokes on it, and it probably takes another minute until he doesn’t feel like he’s hyperventilating. 

Louis doesn’t know what the fuck just happened. 

So of course, that’s exactly what Harry wants to know. “Christ, what happened?” he asks, rubbing his hand soothingly up and down Louis’ back. 

“Just – walked too fast, I think,” Louis manages to press out, fingers still digging into his thighs and trying to regain his balance. “Should’ve had some breakfast before going out.” People get dizzy when they’re hypoglycaemic, he thinks. It’s just as good an excuse as any. 

“Are you sure?” 

Louis wants to shake him off, but he needs to concentrate all his energy on pushing himself upright again without toppling over. Harry’s hand falls off his back when Louis manages to do that, but he cups Louis’ elbow almost straight away, steadying him. 

“Yeah, yeah. All good,” Louis breathes out, ignoring the spots that are dancing in front of his eyes. “I’m fine.” He tries to move away, but Harry won’t let him. 

“Maybe you should sit down,” he suggests with a worried expression. “You’re a bit green.” 

“Mould,” Louis tells him flatly. “Gets pretty wet out here.” 

Harry’s lips twitch like he wants to laugh, but is still concerned enough not to succumb to Louis’ joke. He’s still wearing his fancy coat, which looks even more out of place out on the moor. In the dark grey light of early morning, he looks like a bit like a priest, and Louis is very much aware of the irony in that. He looks like a priest, but he also looks ethereal, outlines blurring in the fuzzy, damp air, his hair swaying back and forth in the breeze. At least he’s swapped his boots for a pair of neon-yellow sneakers. It breaks the spell a little. 

“Thanks, Harry. But I’m fine.” He puts a bit of space between them and clears his sore throat. “What are you doing out here so early?” 

Harry drops his hand back at his side and shrugs. “I couldn’t really sleep. Thought a walk would be nice. I’ve never been to a moor before.” 

Louis huffs out a laugh and starts to walk on shaky legs. “I figured you’d never been,” he says. He does want to sit down for a while, but at the same time he doubts it would help. He doesn’t know what came over him, but he wants to shake it off as soon as possible, especially in Harry’s presence. Puck trots ahead, tail swaying from side to side, and a moment later, he can hear the hasty steps of Harry trying to catch up to him. 

“Why’s that?” Harry asks when he’s caught up. He doesn’t sound out of breath, but knowing him and looking at him, Louis isn’t surprised that Harry’s stayed in shape. 

Louis glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. “Well. If you had, you’d have known not to wander out alone when it’s still dark.” 

Harry’s eyes go wide and his brows shoot up before he composes himself with a chuckle. “More goblins, I assume?” 

“No goblins.” Louis shakes his head, looking ahead where the fog is still milky and dense. To be fair, Harry is pretty stupid if he goes out here alone when weather conditions are the way they are. “Will-o-wisps shining like guiding lights and luring people out where the peat is soft. Works like quicksand.” 

“What?” 

Louis smirks. “Ever seen a bog man?” 

Now it’s Harry who looks a little bit pale, in spite of his reddened cheeks. “Are you serious?” 

Meeting Harry’s gaze, he keeps his pace quickening as his feet instinctively find the route he always takes. For Harry’s sake, he doesn’t stray from the path, but he doesn’t give him a clear answer either, happy to let him squirm for a bit. Louis puts his hands into his pockets, fingers brushing the piece of chalk and keeping an eye out for any faded markings. He’s feeling a bit anxious about doing it in Harry’s presence, but thankfully, the chalk hasn’t been washed away completely. It will be enough to go over them all again in the evening. 

“Better be careful where you put your feet,” he tells Harry instead and keeps walking, the pain in his throat and chest slowly subsiding. Up ahead, Puck shoots off, probably having scented another rodent or grouse, and Louis really hopes he’s too slow to catch it this time. 

“You’re joking,” Harry states, but he sounds unsure and Louis shrugs. 

“I might be. You want to take your chances?” 

Harry huffs, stumbling a little over uneven ground and, for a second, looking downright terrified. He catches himself though, and schools his expression. “Let me guess, at midnight, the bog men rise from the ground and join goblins and trolls in dancing around a fire?” 

“Don’t be silly,” Louis responds with an eye roll. “That only happens during the full moon.” 

 

 

They continue the walk around the plateau in companionable silence. Part of Louis wants to tell Harry to leave, but he’s afraid that might be the last straw that drives him away. Harry’s going to leave soon, so maybe he doesn’t need to be quite as vehement; maybe he and Harry can have dinner together, or breakfast, and chat about things that aren’t important. He’s going to leave anyway. So maybe that’s okay.

Because it’s nice, is the thing, and although they went straight from meeting to dating and didn’t spend any time in between just being friends – Harry was still his best friend. And it feels comfortable to be around him, Louis thinks, glancing at Harry absentmindedly. Harry is scrunching up his face against the wind that’s picking up speed and he’s got his shoulders up by his ears, undoubtedly not used to how harsh the weather can get up here. He trips over roots that stick out here and there, but he keeps up with Louis’ pace. There’s something so soothing about his mere presence and it’s such a relieving contrast to the erratic feelings that have taken hold over Louis’ chest in the last few days. 

Louis is probably being unfair and selfish again, regardless of Harry’s motives. Whether he wants them to try and be friends or – well…Louis would probably make it seem like he’d be keeping in touch and then gradually phase Harry out again, because it’s just simpler to stay where he is and do what he does and not think about Harry hundreds of miles away. And he’s pretty sure Harry wouldn’t forgive him a second time, if he’s even forgiven him yet. 

Louis hopes he hasn’t. He doesn’t deserve it at all. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says eventually and Harry looks at him in surprise. “I was in a bad mood and I said some things I didn’t mean.” 

“I figured,” Harry replies easily, wiping his hand under his nose. Louis should probably be disgusted by that, but they’ve exchanged plenty of bodily fluids, so there isn’t really a point. “Believe it or not, I do know how you get.” 

Louis lowers his gaze to the ground, fumbles with the piece of chalk in his pocket. “I suppose you do.” He should probably make sure Puck doesn’t wander too far away, but he can still hear his excited barking, so he’s close enough. Louis chews on his lower lip for a moment, looks at Harry again, then clears his throat to ask, “How’s the family, then?” 

“Good,” Harry smiles instantly, eyes lighting up. “Gemma got married last summer.” 

“You’re joking.” 

He shakes his head. “Nope. Christopher, he’s a producer and – yeah. He’s nice. They’re good together. They’re both in London as well, which is nice.” 

“I’m sure,” Louis tells him, remembering how close they are, how important it had been to Harry that Louis and Gemma get along when they’d first met, which he shouldn’t have worried about. Gemma’s brilliant, and he’s glad that she’s done well. “Did she go into advertising then?” 

“She did. She’s working for a small firm, but you know Gemma, she’s ambitious,” Harry says. “She’ll climb up the corporate ladder.” 

“And you won’t? _The Guardian_ is quite impressive,” Louis can’t help but remark.

“I spent months interning without pay, sleeping on Gemma’s couch and bartending at night before they offered me an actual job,” Harry responds with a wry smirk. “And I’m still at the end of the food chain, so it’s a lot of work with not much reward. Mum’s worried she can kiss grandchildren goodbye because Gemma and I are working so much.” 

He says it casually, but it still sticks hotly to Louis’ neck and his heart stutters. They’d been way too young to seriously talk about kids, but then again, they’d been far too young to say a lot of things they’d said to each other. Louis knows how much Harry loves children. He doubts that’s changed in the last five years. 

“She was probably surprised Gemma got married before you,” he makes the mistake of blurting out and is now too terrified of Harry’s reaction to look at him; is too terrified that Harry will tell him about a fiancé, about that very serious relationship he’s having with someone he intends to marry. Louis has no right to get jealous, he has no right to – 

“In a way,” Harry interrupts his erratic thoughts, “but then again, she wasn’t. There’s not really been anyone serious for a while, so…” He trails off, dirty sneakers treading over squelching, muddy ground and Louis’ chest is starting to ache. “How about you?” 

Louis nearly trips over his own feet. “What about me?” 

“Well, I mean,” Harry presses on awkwardly, “are you, you know – with someone?” 

His legs stop moving almost automatically and without his consent. Harry comes to a halt as well, tripping over the uneven ground and just catching himself, pink-cheeked and dishevelled and now slightly out of breath. Louis thinks his throat might be closing up again. 

“I’m not,” he answers and hopes it’s still dark enough so Harry can’t see his blush. “I’m not, well – I don’t really go out these days,” which is true and yet still a massive understatement. Even if Louis were to go out, he wouldn’t take anyone home. He doubts he’d have the guts to even hit on anyone, and doesn’t that sound fucking pathetic? Harry doesn’t need to know that. 

“Really?” Harry, despite everything, seems surprised. “You used to be the life of the party.” 

And Louis had been, that’s true, always scared to miss something and dragging Harry out to whatever party Niall had mentioned in passing. And before Harry, he’d probably been somewhat of a slag after starting university, hooking up with someone new every weekend because he’d felt deprived and like he was finally free to do as he pleased. Louis isn’t ashamed of that particular part of his past, but he isn’t proud either. He’s not lying to himself when he thinks he’s grown up and calmed down a little. Although he does still feel inadequate at time, he’s not overcompensating for what he’d believed to be a lost adolescence. 

He tries to shrug it off. “There isn’t really a lot of partying going on here,” he says and then adds dryly, “I know that’s probably hard to believe,” before putting his fingers to his lips and whistling for his dog. 

The fog is still thick, so he can’t see Puck, but only a beat later, he can hear his little bell chiming. Not even a second after that, Louis can make out the black spot in the distance, hurrying towards them with flapping ears. He crouches down and stretches out his arms and lets Puck nearly topple him over when he meets him excitedly, yapping and wagging his tail and rubbing his nose all over Louis’ jacket. His fur is dirty and wet, and not for the first time, Louis wonders if his dog will ever grow up as he rubs his back, when Harry suddenly lets out a gasp that makes Louis still. 

“Louis –” Harry doesn’t say anything else. And he doesn’t need to. 

Louis’ brain takes a moment to piece it together. First, he sees the dark spots on his jacket. Then he smells something sharp, poignant, and metallic. And when he draws his hands back and turns his palms up to his face, he realises his skin has taken on a deep, burgundy colour. 

“Oh god.” 

Harry comes closer. “Is he hurt?” 

There’s blood all over Louis’ arms and chest, blood that Puck has smeared there, but he’s still looking at Louis, still wagging his tail and he seems fine. He’s standing on four legs and he wasn’t limping and he doesn’t look like he’s hurt at all. 

“I don’t think so.” 

He lifts his gaze to the direction Puck came from, then meets Harry’s eyes and sees the terror that’s rapidly growing in his own chest reflected in his expression. Louis’ blood runs cold, and he struggles to get back to his feet, feeling like his spine has turned into a metal rod. He can’t look at his hands. 

“Could’ve been a grouse. He manages to catch one sometimes,” he suggests despite knowing full well that if the blood had come from a dead bird, there’d be a lot more feathers. And he doubts Puck would have let go of it. 

Harry’s turned very pale and he doesn’t seem to believe that either, his focus flickering to Louis’ chest and then up to his face again, eyes wide and jaw clenched. 

“Stay here,” Louis tells him and untangles Puck’s leash from around his neck, puts him on it, and presses it into Harry’s hands; he’s present just enough not to drop it again. “Sit,” Louis says to his dog, who obeys, fortunately, and doesn’t growl at Harry like he had the day before. Then Louis steels himself. “I’m going to have a look. Maybe it’s nothing.” 

It doesn’t feel like it’s going to be nothing. He thinks back to his unprompted panic attack just a mere hour ago and – and maybe it’s ridiculous to believe there is any sort of connection between him feeling out of breath and his dog being covered in blood, yet…Louis can feel that something is wrong. And he’s been feeling like that the entire weekend. He thinks of the broken fence and the missing goat and the four dead hikers who have already been found and – yeah. This isn’t going to be good. 

“Don’t you think I should –” Harry starts, but Louis cuts him off before he can finish. 

“No. Stay here, hold the dog. I’ll be right back,” he assures him, even though his own heart is thumping so hard it hurts. Telling Puck to stay once more, Louis turns on his heels and heads to where Puck came from, steps slow but steady and eyes up ahead. 

The sun has probably just about breached the horizon, but the fog is so thick Louis can only see a few yards ahead, pillows of moss covered in frost and a few puddles of mud here and there in between. Louis squints, looks at the route Puck presumably took through the moor, some paw prints standing out and a couple of holes started that he had probably been too excitable to commit to. The farther Louis walks, the harder he suddenly finds it to breathe and he briefly wonders what might happen were he to break down, unable to get his lungs to work again and without Harry to pull him out of it. 

It’s a redundant thought, but then again, perhaps it isn’t. Something seems to settle around his neck as his feet sink into the ground and even walking becomes a struggle. But Louis pushes forward, and he tells himself that it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s going to be absolutely fine, when he sees it up ahead. 

It’s a body. Of course it is. And for one moment, Louis expects to find another person with their face in a puddle, which is upsetting enough, but something he could stomach. The scene that is now revealed in front of him, in the middle of nowhere, away from any prominent paths or walkways, in the midst of fog that is so thick Louis thinks he might reach out and hold onto it, is straight out of the worst sort of nightmare. 

The frozen shrubs are splattered with blood. The person, a woman he thinks, is lying in a puddle indeed, but it’s dark red and full of – 

Louis has to still and press a hand over his nose and mouth to suppress a gag that’s pushing bile up his throat. His pulse is galloping away and his ears are fuzzy, but his vision stays cruelly clear and precise. It is a woman, he can tell at a second glance that almost makes him throw up again, and someone or some _thing_ has ripped her entire lower stomach out. And it’s – it’s everywhere. 

But – and that is what really chills him down to his very core – instead of leaving her with a hollow abdomen, it’s been filled with soil and…Louis doesn’t want to look closer. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to step into her fucking liver, he thinks hysterically and takes a few rattling breaths before pressing his palm to his lips once again. It’s been filled with dark, damp soil, and when Louis leans just a little bit closer, he can distinguish bits of green and roots and what appears to be bits of purple flower heads. 

A shiver runs through him and he has to cough, squeezing his eyes shut in the process, but when he opens them again, he’s staring into hers; wide and still and full of horror. He recoils and stumbles back, falls over a mound and hits the ground hard. Gripped by panic, Louis scrambles up and forward, not breaking into a run, but almost jogging back across the terrain to where he hopes Harry and Puck are still waiting. His vision is blurring and it feels like his insides have been ripped out as well, a burning pain spreading from his core and nearly blinding him. 

Barking hits his ears as if it’s coming through a thick pillow and he can tell that Harry is opening his mouth, is saying something to him, but Louis just grabs Puck’s leash and Harry’s elbow and starts pulling. The back of his neck is burning and it’s prickling and without knowing why, he thinks they’re being watched – he fears they’re being followed. 

“Keep walking,” he says, not even registering where he’s stepping, instinct and habit taking over, making him walk mechanically towards where the path gets wider and curls back towards the village. 

“Is there…” A body, Louis assumes Harry wants to ask. “I have my phone,” he suggests, stumbling after Louis, “should I call someone? The police?” 

“No reception,” Louis replies curtly. He can’t see and he can’t fucking breathe. “Keep walking. Just keep walking.”

 

 

***

 

_to be continued..._

 

 


	3. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis feels out of breath, and he can barely stand to look at Harry. “Are you sure you want to open that can of worms again?”
> 
> Harry pulls a face. “Can of worms? Yikes. Don’t think that’s how I’d describe it.” His grimace turns into a warm and genuine smile that warms Louis down to his slightly clammy toes. “But using your lovely metaphor – I don’t really think we ever closed that can in the first place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listened to [the rain song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDVnjCwCYCs) by led zeppelin and [where i end and you begin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0JgrOyEA3Q) by radiohead.
> 
> the [beck isle museum](http://www.beckislemuseum.org.uk/) in pickering is a real place, however mrs. appleton's shop is not.
> 
> [geeb](http://www.genuinelybelieve.tumblr.com/) did the beta'ing, as always, and i love her.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the few original characters that float around in the background. This is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities with reality are unintended and incidental.
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: swearing, as usual

***

 

CHAPTER III.

 

 

Louis wants to wash his hands. 

It’s been an hour, and he’s still not washed his hands. The blood is dried now, darkened to a strange, brown colour that almost matches the hideous carpet covering most of the stone floor. The small room is dark and cluttered, only a tiny square window allowing light to fall into the space Geoff and Karen mostly use for bookkeeping and storage. It’s where the police have done most their questioning, because it’s convenient and quiet, Louis guesses, except now he can hear Karen’s agitated voice from the kitchen next door. 

“So,” Inspector James says, tapping his pen against the table top. “Around what time did you find the body?” 

Louis just wants to wash his hands. The quick staccato of pen hitting wood is making his eye twitch. “Not sure. Must’ve been around half six.” 

Inspector James scribbles something down and looks up at Louis when he’s finished. “And you came straight to the Inn after?” 

“No, we went and grabbed coffee and a muffin,” Louis deadpans, and just barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “Of course we got here as fast as we could.” 

More scribbling. Some pots clank together in the kitchen, the noise carrying through to them. “And how long before that did you run into Mr. Styles?” 

Louis shrugs. “An hour or so earlier.” 

The inspector notes it down as well and is silent for a minute, or at least long enough for Louis to hope this is it and he can go. But of course he isn’t so lucky. 

“This is the second body you’ve found in not even two weeks. And the body was quite far away from any walking tracks,” Inspector James starts, and Louis narrows his eyes. 

“What are you implying?” 

“I’m not implying anything,” the inspector says, holding up his hands in an appeasing gesture. “I’m just interested in finding out what exactly happened.” 

“Then let me sum it up for you,” Louis responds and sits up straight. “I take the same route every day, every week, around the exact same time. And I have done so for the past five years. Anybody can confirm that. Around half six, I called my dog, and he came running covered in blood. So I told Harry to wait and went looking. And before you ask,” he quickly adds, because he can already see a question forming in Inspector James’ head, “everyone here knows how to track. I do as well. I found the body, I walked back to Harry, and then we came here to phone the police.” 

“You are on a first name basis with Mr. Styles?” 

Digging his fingers into his thighs, Louis bites down on his lips and takes a deep breath. “What’s that got to do with anything?” 

“Nothing,” the inspector replies, but he’s already writing something down on his obnoxious notepad. “I’d just like to know all the details.” 

“We went to university together.” Louis tells him the shortened version. It’s nobody’s business what Harry is to him, or was to him, and he doesn’t like feeling like a bug squirming around under a magnifying glass. This doesn’t sound like standard procedure to him. Sure, he gets that finding the last two bodies might arouse suspicion, but it’s not like there’s any evidence pointing towards him. It’s not like there’s any evidence at all. “Can I go now?” 

But Inspector James ignores his question. “I assume you know the area very well,” he states instead. “Was there anything that seemed out of the ordinary this morning? Or have you noticed anything recently that might have been suspicious?” 

“No,” Louis flat out lies, glad that his voice doesn’t waver. “And it’s so foggy in the mornings you can barely see ten yards ahead.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, Inspector. But this place is quiet. If anything out of the ordinary had happened, a lot of people would’ve taken notice and come forward. And anyway,” Louis adds, “you ought to broaden your search. Nobody here has anything to do with this.” 

“What makes you so sure of that?” 

This time, Louis does roll his eyes. “Do you want me to do your work? Have you looked around this place? Most people make a living from tourism. Do you have any idea how much income they’ve lost already? Whoever is behind this isn’t from Rosedale Abbey.” 

“Whoever is behind the killings,” Inspector James interjects, “is undoubtedly very familiar with the area.” 

“So?” Louis answers back. “There are hikers who’ve been coming here for decades. They know the area just as well, even though they’re not from here.” He puts his hands on the edge of the table and pushes his chair back, rucking up the carpet. “Now, if you don’t want to outright tell me I’m a suspect, then please excuse me, because I really need a shower.” 

“I expect you to be available for further questions, Mr. Tomlinson,” the inspector calls after him as Louis pulls open the door and steps into the kitchen, where Karen and Liam are waiting for him. 

Liam’s on his knees, rubbing Puck’s fur with a big towel, and he looks up as Louis approaches, but Louis doesn’t say a word, just grabs his keys and Puck’s leash from the sturdy table in the middle of the room and lets his eyes wander around, searching for his jacket. 

“I’ve bunged it into the washing machine,” Karen catches on to what he’s looking for. “You can take one of Liam’s coats for now.” She’s already got one draped over her arm, along with a plastic bag that undoubtedly holds a variety of comfort food she’d probably like to feed Louis herself. 

“I hosed him down,” Liam adds, gesturing to Puck’s wet fur, “so he should be all clean.” 

“Thanks,” Louis mutters absently, and shrugs on the coat Karen hands him, puts the leash around his neck, and waits for Liam to let go of his dog. “I’m going to head home now.” 

“And I’m walking you,” Liam says in a tone that allows no objection, and stretches. 

Louis has no energy to argue anyway. He needs to go home, and shower, and have tea, and figure out how to fucking wrap his head around all of this without accidentally dislocating it. With the police keen on breathing down his neck, Louis is faced with a considerable challenge. He needs to find out what’s happening, and fast, before the inspector really starts to dig. 

“Where’s Harry?” Louis asks Liam when they leave the kitchen and enter the front room, which is quiet and empty, smelling like ground coffee beans and wet carpet. It’s an odd combination that makes Louis’ nose twitch. 

“Talking to another officer in the lounge, I think,” Liam tells him. “Do you want to wait for him?” 

“No.” Louis is quick to decline. He needs some distance, and he needs to stop feeling like he’s falling apart at the seams before having to face Harry again. Louis is aching to distance himself from everything and everyone for a bit, to get a chance to breathe and process and understand, because nothing is making sense right now. “No, let’s go.” 

Outside, the air feels almost frosty. Louis isn’t sure if he’d just not noticed earlier how cold it actually is, or if the temperature has inexplicably dropped in the past hour. At least the fog has lifted, but only enough to turn the sky into a single, grey mass. They start walking at a measured and steady pace, Puck loitering behind, making a zigzag line as he smells shrubs here and there. Liam waits until the Inn has disappeared behind a corner to speak up again. 

“What happened?” 

Louis doesn’t want to talk about it again. But more than that, he wants Liam to know, and to tell his parents and everyone else, so that they can all be very careful. “A woman with her abdomen ripped out and replaced by soil,” he sums it up, already feeling a strange sort of detachment, because it’s so surreal. It feels a bit like a dream, or perhaps, more accurately, a nightmare. 

He doesn’t see Liam flinch, but he hears him utter a curse under his breath. 

“Any idea what that means?” 

He shakes his head. “Haven’t got a clue. There were flower parts in there as well. Maybe some kind of herb,” he continues, trying to recall exactly how it had all looked, but simultaneously grateful that his mind has started to blur the details. “I should’ve taken a closer look.” 

“I don’t blame you for not doing that,” Liam says, and lets out a whistling breath through his teeth. “Shit. This is really getting out of hand. They’re going to send more police up here, aren’t they? What if they get, like, search warrants?” 

He knows exactly what Liam’s implying and that would not be a good thing. In fact, that’s probably the closest they could come to a worst-case scenario. “Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” he responds, but he doesn’t have much hope. He doesn’t know where to start. There are hundreds of books all over his house, and almost as many notebooks filled with his grandmother’s calligraphic handwriting, and it would take him months, most likely even years, to get through all of them. 

Louis just feels overwhelmed, and his chest still hurts, and on top of everything, he suddenly realises, everything is really damn quiet – unusually so. There are always twigs and branches snapping and shrubs rustling and birds fluttering around, a constant humming and whispering no matter the time, no matter the season. Apart from the river gurgling to their left and Puck trotting over the gravel road, it’s silent. 

It’s absolutely silent, standing in such contrast with the strange yowling wind that had almost deafened his ears earlier, and it creeps the hell out of Louis. He wonders if Liam notices it; if he realises it at all. Perhaps not. Liam looks unsettled yet somehow also composed, and Louis knows him well enough to know that were he to notice anything suspicious, he’d show it. Liam was born and raised in Rosedale Abbey as well, but unlike Louis, he isn’t going to spend his entire life here; he isn’t tied to this place like Louis is. 

Louis decides not to bring it up. It’s something for him to worry about. 

Liam tugs him into a solid hug when they reach Louis’ driveway and when he pulls away there are deep worry lines on his face. “Be safe, please,” he says earnestly, “and take your phone with you if you go out. You never know.” 

“I will. You be safe as well. And stay away from the river.” Puck shoots past him and towards the house, his bell chiming the only sound that reaches Louis’ ears, which is disconcerting. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Liam waves as he turns to head back to the Inn and Louis watches him until he’s out of sight before making his way up to his house. And today, for a reason Louis can’t quite pinpoint, it looks gloomy in a way other children had used to describe it when he was younger. He’d never understood it, because it was home, and home had never been gloomy, but now, he’s almost dreading going inside. Maybe because he knows that it’s where nearly all his unanswered questions are manifesting themselves. It’s a testament to everything his Nan knew, and everything Louis doesn’t. 

The front door creaks in its hinges, and inside the air is thick with dust. If it were any less cold, Louis wouldn’t hesitate to open up a couple of windows, but without proper heating, that’s not a good idea. He doesn’t spend any time in most of the rooms anyway. Already thinking about the shower he’s going to take as soon as he’s set everything down, Louis walks into the kitchen and his eyes promptly turn to the table in the middle of the room. Karen’s goodie bag slips out of his hand. 

In the very centre of the table, in a small pile of dirt and soil, sits a single, blooming thistle.

  

 

The back door that leads from the utility room into the garden bangs open, then slams shut immediately afterward, the sound echoing dully through the entire ground floor. Louis has been sitting at the table for Lord knows how long. He still hasn’t washed his hands and his stomach is clenching, quietly grumbling, but he doesn’t pay any attention to that. 

Quiet footsteps, a gust of cold air brushing his neck. The air smells like bark mulch and copper. 

“Was it you?” he asks, eyes flickering up to the figure sitting hunched over on the fridge, skinny fingers fumbling with the tin of biscuits Louis had left out the previous night. The metal lid clatters to the floor, but Louis doesn’t flinch, doesn’t allow his gaze to waver. “When I asked for your help, this isn’t what I was talking about.” 

Crumbs start falling to the floor and Puck is there immediately, licking them off the floor and waiting for more. 

“You know exactly what I mean.” 

Skinny legs fold up, dark skin covered by even darker lines that make up patterns Louis doesn’t try to make sense of anymore. The biscuit obsession is another thing he doesn’t fixate on. Puck sits down and whines, begging for a bigger piece that promptly falls onto his nose. 

“If you had nothing to do with it, then what’s going on?” Louis asks and points a finger at the thistle that should definitely not be blooming this time of year. “And what the hell does this mean?” 

He thinks it was thistles filling the woman’s hollowed out abdomen and that this is supposed to tell him something, but Louis doesn’t get it. And for once, he just wants a straight answer, no cryptic messages he can’t make sense of. 

“Fine,” he bites out. “If you don’t want to give an actual answer, I’m going to go and wash this damn blood off. And don’t give Puck any more biscuits. He’ll be sick on the floor again.” 

With that, Louis gets up and leaves the kitchen to finally have a fucking shower.

  

 

According to Wikipedia, the thistle is a Celtic symbol for birth and nobility, and Louis doesn’t really know what to do with that. He doesn’t exactly trust information on the Internet, but his grandmother has left him so many books about herbs and plants that it would take ages to go through them, so he’d decided to give it a go and just hit up Google. Louis regrets that decision already, because knowing that the thistle was believed in medieval times to prevent hair loss isn’t useful either. The thistle is also Scotland’s national flower, but Scotland is still a fair bit away, so Louis discards that information as well. 

Sighing heavily, Louis closes his laptop and brings his fingertips up to massage his temples. There’s a headache blooming right behind his forehead and from what he remembers, he’s all out of painkillers. Maybe that’s a good thing, since he doesn’t like taking them anyway, any kind of pills making him a bit loopy and drowsy rather than better. But there is a large box of mint leaves sitting in the kitchen; he could quickly boil them up with some lemon and honey to loosen the tension. 

The kitchen is empty, Louis sees with relief once he’s padded into it with socked feet. The empty biscuit tin is sitting on the table right next to the wilting thistle Louis doesn’t dare touch, and he guesses it’s a silent and rather passive aggressive reminder that any more help or information will require even more chocolate-covered digestives and ginger snaps. 

Louis gets up on his toes, distractedly wondering why the hell he hasn’t moved his teas to a more accessible position (the truth, he knows, is that he’s not moved a single thing in this house in five years and he’s not going to start now), and fumbles for the mint tea. He finds the old, battered box right at the back and, in pulling it out of the depths of the cupboard, drags a couple more boxes out with it. They hit his head and his shoulders and fall to the floor, accompanied by a curse Louis presses out between his teeth. 

Setting the mint leaves onto the counter, he turns around and bends down to pick up everything when his eyes fall on a green box with purple flower heads printed own. Mumbling yet another curse, Louis grabs it and lifts it to his face, eyes skimming over the italic letters printed on the front and back. 

“Milk thistle with honey,” he reads out loud to nobody in particular, and turns the box around, pulling his lips into a frown. “For indigestion and upset stomach. Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

It’s crudely ironic that this plant was found in the body of a woman who probably didn’t have a stomach anymore. Louis is starting to wonder if there’s any meaning behind it at all, or if someone is having a good old laugh at his expense. Perhaps it’s meant to lead him on a wild goose chase that will take him nowhere. But deep down, Louis has a hunch that that’s not the case. It doesn’t make much sense now, but he doubts he’d have a thistle sitting on his kitchen table if that were true. 

He fills the kettle with water and puts it on the hot range, hoping it will boil quickly as he picks up boxes of herbal tea and puts them back into the cupboard, eyes falling back onto the purple, prickly flower that has started to droop. It shouldn’t be blooming, is the thing, as Louis understands, because it’s November and bloody freezing outside. 

Once the water has boiled, he fills his old ceramic teapot and the pleasantly minty smell spreads through the kitchen only seconds later. Louis leans over the steaming pot and breathes in deeply, feels the pain subside a bit almost instantly, which is such a relief that he stays in that position for another few minutes until his face is hot and damp. He pours himself a cup, touching his left fingertips to his heated skin, wiping the perspiration across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. 

A quick look at his phone tells him it’s only just past noon, and that Liam has messaged him about his plans for tea, but Louis guesses that can wait. He should drive to Pickering to get a few things, mainly biscuits, which sounds ridiculous even inside his head. Judging by the dark clouds he can see looking out the window, it’s probably best to do that sooner rather than later. There’s no danger of flooding or anything like it, but the drive through the valley along a rather narrow street is never pleasant when it’s hard to see more than a few yards ahead. 

As if on cue, Puck trots into the kitchen, yawning and stretching his body heartily before slobbering away at his water, effectively flooding a small section of the kitchen. His dog isn’t particularly good at being a dog, Louis thinks absentmindedly, at least not when it comes to the most banal things a dog should do. He doesn’t like his dog food, he’s dead scared of sheep and he can’t even drink water out of a bowl without making a mess. But Louis guesses that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree – although Louis does have an excuse for being a shit human being. 

Louis has half a cup of mint tea before leaving the kitchen and heading down the hallway towards the front door, where he pulls on his sneakers and grabs his jacket. Puck comes without being called and sits patiently by the door while Louis looks for his leash, keys and hat. Outside, it’s even more obvious that they’ve got a bit of a downpour coming their way. His old Jeep is splattered with dirt, but cleaning it is barely worth it this close to winter. 

He opens the trunk for Puck and rounds the car to get into the driver’s seat, but when he turns the key in the ignition, nothing happens. 

“Oh, _come on_ ,” he groans, trying it again, and again, and again, before giving up and dropping his head onto the steering wheel, taking a deep, calming breath. This isn’t his day, his week, his month, and he cannot believe that now his car has stopped working. “It’s probably the damn battery again,” Louis mutters to himself, and attempts to start it again for good measure. The car remains silent and unmoving. 

He’s absolutely useless when it comes to cars. Liam’s the handyman who knows how to fix everything, so Louis resigns himself to his fate, gets out of the car, lets his dog out as well, and starts walking off his property and towards the village. He’s not sure if Liam’s at the Inn, but he usually is at this time of day and if not, Louis can always ask Geoff if he can quickly borrow one of their cars. He just needs to make this one trip, and then he won’t need a car for a while, so Liam can have a look at it whenever he has the time. 

It doesn’t come to that, though, because he sees Liam as soon as he walks through the door. He’s behind the bar, leaning over the counter, and pointing at something Harry’s holding angled towards him. 

They both look up at him simultaneously. 

“Um, hi,” Louis says. 

“Hey, Lou,” Liam responds instantly, forehead already creased with worry, “is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, just,” he starts, eyes flickering to Harry and back, “car’s not starting again, and I need a few things from Pickering. Can I borrow the Polo? Probably won’t be long.” 

Before Liam can say anything, Harry jumps in. “I was gonna head to Pickering just now,” he tells Louis and waves what now appears to be a map of the region. “Liam was just showing me the quickest route. I can give you a ride if you want.”

Louis feels the automatic refusal already creeping up his throat, and it takes a lot of effort to swallow it back down. He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this, because it’s just a ride, and even though Louis doesn’t feel much like company, Harry has most likely got things to do as well, so they might only spend the half hour drive there and back together, which is doable. It’s perfectly fine. Louis might be feeling slightly unhinged, but a car ride is perfectly fine. 

“Are you sure?” he still feels the need to ask. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience.” 

“Don’t be daft,” Harry waves him off, folding up the map to stuff it back into the pocket of his coat. “And if you’re there, at least I won’t get lost. You know how terrible my sense of direction is.” 

Louis lets out a quiet chuckle at that, remembering that Harry had even gotten lost driving home from university for Christmas. “Can’t have you ending up in a ditch,” he concedes. 

“Absolutely can’t have that,” Harry agrees with a smirk, carving those illicit dimples into his cheeks. “Let me just grab my things. I’ll be right back,” and he disappears through the lounge and into the back where a narrow staircase leads up to the guestrooms. 

Louis turns to Liam with a raised brow. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Liam is quick to decline any comment, but Louis can tell by the way he’s smiling what thoughts he’s keeping to himself. “You want me to take a look at the Jeep?” 

“Yeah, thanks. There’s no rush though.” 

“Not exactly a lot to do at the moment, mate,” Liam says, motioning around the empty front room. “Last guests apart from Harry left an hour ago.” 

“Sorry,” Louis tells him, even though he knows it’s not directly his fault. But he’s still not figured out how to stop it, so he does blame himself. Sure, it’s not peak season, but usually, there are always people staying at one of the guesthouses or the camping ground. Now, apart from the locals and – strangely enough – Harry, Rosedale Abbey is entirely deserted. 

Liam shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Still. If there’s anything you guys need, you know I –”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Lou.” Liam looks up from the counter, his eyes going from soft to hard in a second. “We had a strong summer. It’s all fine. Let’s just hope it’ll go back to normal soon.” 

Louis opens his mouth to protest, but thankfully, Harry is already sauntering back into the room. He stops short, glancing between Louis and Liam, probably sensing the shift in mood. But he doesn’t address it, fortunately, just shoulders a worn leather satchel and walks up to Louis. 

“Shall we?” 

“Sure, yeah,” Louis responds, and unwinds the leash from around his neck to put Puck on it. He throws a look over his shoulder, calls out, “see you later, Liam,” and follows Harry out the door. The gravel crunches underneath their shoes as Harry leads the way across the expansive car park surrounding the Inn. 

“Nice ride,” Louis comments when Harry unlocks a shiny and very new looking Audi. 

“It’s Robin’s,” Harry explains with a roll of his eyes, but he’s still smiling as he drops his bag onto the back seat. “I stopped at home on the way up here and he told me to take it. Not gonna say no to that, am I?” He opens the driver’s door. “Um, do you want to put Puck in the back?” 

Louis looks down at his dog, who’s already looking up at him, seemingly wondering the same. “Nah, he’ll get your seats all dirty. I’ll keep him in the front with me, if that’s all right.” 

“Sure, yeah,” Harry tells him. “Whatever you want.” 

Louis wrestles with Puck a little before he manages to keep him between his legs, leash wrapped tightly around his hand, and it’s only seconds before he starts drooling all over Louis’ jeans. Harry expertly reverses and gets the car onto the narrow road, radio starting up and playing music Louis thinks he’s familiar with, but can’t put a name to. 

“Just follow the road for twenty minutes,” he tells Harry once they’ve left the last house behind them. “And then get on the A170 just after Wrelton. It’s really not that hard.” 

“Really? I’m sure you remember when I got lost at Fletcher Moss Park. I walked around for two hours before I found Niall again.” 

“Oh, I remember. You nearly cried,” Louis says, looking at Harry out of the corner of his eyes. Harry’s grinning, but keeping his eyes on the road, thankfully. 

“Don’t mock me. It was traumatic,” he tells Louis with fake seriousness. “Niall felt really bad.” 

Louis has to chuckle and shake his head to himself. “I still don’t understand why he was so dead set on going there in the first place.” He glances down, pushes at Puck’s nose with his finger and watches in amusement how his dog curls away from him in annoyance. “How is he, by the way? Niall. You guys still in touch?” 

“Of course we are,” Harry affirms immediately, slowing down to let an old Range Rover pass them. It’s probably Mrs. Lloyd driving home from doing her weekly shop. “He works as a freelance photographer now, sometimes for _The Guardian_ as well. We lived together up until a few months ago.” 

“Glad to hear he’s doing well.” 

“He’d love to see you again,” Harry continues, and shoots him a quick look before focusing back on the road. “He might come up here as well. I told him it’s proper gloomy and mystical and you know, he’s Irish, so he loves that.” 

Louis can’t help but still at that. He’d love to see Niall again, because when he allows himself to think about it, he misses his former flatmate like he would a lost limb. But Niall is yet another person, another set of eyes, who is too curious and inquisitive for his own good, and keeping up certain appearances, especially now that Louis suspects Inspector James has an eye on him, is already proving difficult. 

“Great,” he manages to press out after a beat, and he hopes Harry doesn’t hear the strain in his voice. 

They’re quiet for the next couple of minutes, the radio jumping stations a handful of times because reception out here remains bloody dreadful. Harry drives slower than Louis would drive himself, obviously not familiar with the road, but it keeps Louis calm. Puck seems to have fallen asleep, huffing and grumbling like he’s having another very exciting dream, and Louis reaches down to absentmindedly stroke the tightly curled fur on his neck.

Harry clears his throat after a while, barely audible over the hum of the car’s engine. “Are you and Liam okay, by the way? You looked a bit tense just now.” 

“We’re fine,” Louis answers and he could just leave it at that, so he’s not quite sure why he continues. “It’s just – all this is pretty hard on everyone, because nobody wants to come out here anymore. None of us like strangers, but they’re the main source of income for a lot of people.” 

“I’ve…not really thought about that. Sorry to hear that.” 

Louis shrugs. “It’s okay. Summer was good, so it’s fine for now, I was just offering Liam to help out and we’ve all got a lot of pride, so of course that didn’t go down well.” 

Harry chews on his lip, seeming to mull something over, before asking, “so what do _you_ do these days? I don’t mean to pry, I’m just – curious.”

_That’s what they all are_ , Louis thinks disgruntledly, but he guesses there’s no harm in telling Harry a bit more. He figures if he offers up a few carefully selected bits of information, Harry might refrain from doing some digging on his own. 

“Me family’s lived in Rosedale Abbey for a long time,” he elaborates. “They owned the mines and a fair share of land. So there’s like, a bit of money left. And property that I look after. So I just – help out wherever I’m needed, really, here and there.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, and he sounds and looks genuinely surprised, which in return doesn’t surprise Louis all that much. He knows he doesn’t give off the air of what most people would call old money. He doesn’t look or act particularly posh, because he’s not, not like that. That’s not how he was raised. Louis had never wanted for anything growing up, but that doesn’t mean his Nan spoiled him, or would have ever allowed him to become a pretentious twat. And she’d been old-fashioned when it came to money, not spending it when it wasn’t absolutely necessary and thinking of his car and the house and the state of his belongings, Louis has very much absorbed that behaviour. 

But the fact that he doesn’t have to worry about money doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to worry about anything else. 

“What?” He looks at Harry. “No trust fund jokes?” 

Harry pulls his brows together in a frown. “No, Lou, of course not. I’m just a bit surprised. You never mentioned any of that before.” 

“Not something I like to advertise,” Louis mutters, directing his gaze out the windows again. The landscape rushes past in mostly brown and only rarely green hues, sky still ominously dark on the horizon. He hopes the bad weather will stay away until evening. “What d’you have to do in Pickering anyway?” 

“Just some research,” Harry replies. It’s not far anymore; Louis can already see Wrelton and the A170, and there’s Pickering in the distance as well. “Since I don’t have much to go on, and the police aren’t disclosing anything yet, my editor suggested writing something more in-depth about the area. Maybe include some of the stories you told me. Set a proper scene.” 

Louis bites his lips. “Sounds great.” He takes a deep but quiet breath. “If you’ve got lots to do, I can make me own way back. Take the bus or call a cab.” 

“I shouldn’t be that long. I wanted to have a look at the old church and…what’s it called? The Beck Isle Museum. You know it?” 

“Went there on about a dozen school trips,” Louis snorts. “But I guess it’s okay. Probably not much compared to what you’ve got at your disposal in London.” 

“Well, I’m not sure,” Harry says. “I quite like small places like that. Very charming.” 

They drive through Wrelton and turn left, and then it’s just another handful of minutes before they’ve reached their final destination. Louis directs Harry through the streets towards the humble town centre, where there are a couple of public car parks, as well as most of the shops. Puck isn’t happy to be woken up, but as soon as the doors open and he smells the fresh air, he’s out of the car and throwing his body forward, yanking at the leash. 

Louis gives Harry directions and they agree to meet back at the car in one and a half hours, which is plenty of time for Louis to get the biscuits and painkillers, and perhaps have a chat to Mrs. Appleton. Holding Puck’s leash tighter, he decides he should probably do the latter first, so he leaves the town centre and heads down a few narrow, cobblestone alleys towards the small, skew shop with heavy curtains and titbits in the two windows on either side of the green, wooden door. 

Inside, it smells old, like the ancient carpets and tapestry covering the floor and the walls, like the dust clinging to the cobwebs in the corners and spun around the barely functioning chandelier dangling from the ceiling. It also smells like myrrh, which always makes Louis feel slightly nauseous for reasons he doesn’t really understand. The walls are lined with heavy bookshelves that are stacked with small bottles and mason jars all containing tinctures and herbs. There’s a round table in the middle of the room with stacks of tarot cards, some rather funky looking jewellery, and a few bowls with differently sized crystals. 

It had been part of a dare once, after too many beers with Liam and the lads from school, when Louis had barged in here for the first time, well aware that the old lady owning the shop was an old friend of his grandmother’s. He’d come in to take the piss, to be a brat and misbehave and put on a show for the lads waiting just outside the door. But Mrs. Appleton hadn’t allowed him to even say a single word before she’d taken hold of his hands and turned his palms up. 

Louis had walked out half an hour later, shaken down to his core and so downright disturbed and confused that the boys’ heckling didn’t even reach him. 

He doesn’t come here often, and it still isn’t a place where he feels entirely comfortable, but so much has happened since that initial spook that Louis doesn’t exactly dwell on it. Mrs. Appleton is behind an old, sturdy desk right at the back, a couple of candles lighting the rather dark space, reflected in her thick-rimmed glasses. Her hair is white and thin like the cobwebs decorating her shop, her back bowed, and her hands skeletal, but her eyes are still as sharp as ever when they fall onto Louis. 

“Hello, Mrs. Appleton,” he greets her and closes the door behind himself. “How’re you doing?” 

Her spindly fingers close around a tumbler filled almost to the brim with amber liquid. Probably brandy. Louis remembers her having a big thing for brandy. “I believe better than you, my dear. You look dreadful. Brandy?” 

“Sure,” he laughs, “why the hell not.” While Puck lies down on the carpet near one of the heaters, Louis takes a seat at the desk opposite her and shrugs out of his jacket. Mrs. Appleton pours him a glass – thankfully not quite as full as her own – and screws the bottle shut again, putting it somewhere on the floor. “You been following the news, then?” 

“I’m old, dear, not dead. Of course I’m following the news. It’s all very intriguing, you know.” 

Louis takes a sip of the brandy. It burns and goes to his head almost immediately. “That’s not exactly the word I’d use,” he says and sets the glass down again. “And I’m…I’m starting to get worried it’s not safe anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong and –” 

“You’re not doing anything wrong, dear,” Mrs. Appleton cuts him off and flicks her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m sure it’ll go back to normal soon enough. You know how they feel about intruders.” 

“I don’t think these people were intruding…” 

“Ah, but you can’t know that, can you?” she asks, and takes a very impressive gulp of brandy. Louis already feels lightheaded, but that might be down to the myrrh. “But that’s not why you’ve come to see me, is it, dear? You know, people say all sorts of things about me, but between us, I’m a bit of a charlatan.” She laughs conspirationally, has more brandy, and folds her hands, leaning forward. 

“You know more than most people,” Louis insists, but he pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens up the picture he’d taken earlier that day, holding it out for Mrs. Appleton to see. “I was wondering if you could tell me what kind of thistle this is.” 

She squints, looking at the picture of the thistle that’s still sitting on Louis’ kitchen table, since he can’t bring himself to even touch it at this point, feeling inexplicably paralysed whenever he goes near it. “Hm, blooming this time of year? How unusual. But if I’m not mistaken, that’s what’s called a Silybum marianum, also known as the blessed milkthistle.” 

“Is it native?”

Mrs. Appleton purses her thin lips. “It isn’t. You find it in Southern Europe, parts of Asia, I think. Never seen it grow out here. I seriously doubt anyone would have it in a greenhouse either. Where did you get it?” 

Louis doesn’t reply to that. But she gets it, keeping her eyes locked with his and nodding in understanding. 

“I see,” she says. “That explains a lot.” 

“What does it do?” Louis asks the question that’s been grinding on his mind since the early hours of the morning. “Or, I mean, what’s it used for? I think I’m supposed to figure out the meaning, but I’m not getting anywhere.” 

“Hm.” Mrs. Appleton hums. “I’m not sure I can help you out with that. Our dear Rosie was much more versed in that area.”

“I know,” Louis sighs. “But she’s left so much, and I don’t have any overview. I was hoping you might at least have an idea what to look for.”

“I’m so sorry, my dear. All I know is that it’s been used in a lot of ways. They use it for liver disease in China, or so I’ve read. The extract, that is. From the seeds. There was this whole debate about it curing cancer as well, I’m sure you’ve seen, it was on the news. Although I seriously doubt that that’s true.” She reaches out with surprisingly strong hands and covers Louis’, which are trembling on top of the table. “I wish I could give you answers, love. But I think you need to be more patient with these things.” 

“I don’t have time to be patient,” Louis tells her, swallowing around the lump that’s settling in his throat. “Five people are dead. Four of them drowned and the fifth had her abdomen ripped out and filled with bloody thistles.” 

Mrs. Appleton’s hands tighten around his so suddenly that Louis startles, looking at her with wide eyes as she stares ahead without blinking, mouth slightly agape. Then, with more speed and strength than Louis would have accredited her with, she shoots up from her chair and rounds the desk, crosses the room with quick steps, and turns the lock. Louis’ eyebrows shoot up, climbing even higher when she closes the curtains, dipping the room into an eerie glow. A question is lying on the tip of his tongue, but before it can fall forward, Mrs. Appleton walks to the small cabinet behind her desk and starts digging through one of the drawers. 

When she straightens her back and turns around, she has something cradled in her hands, and Louis is holding his breath. 

“What’s that?” he asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper when Mrs. Appleton opens her hands enough to reveal a small linen sachet, tied up at the top. 

She sits back down and pulls his arm across the desk to drop the sachet into his open palm. Almost reverently, she curls his fingers into a closed fist. “Take this and bury it in your garden as soon as you get home. It doesn’t have to be deep, but make sure it’s in the ground, and that it stays there.” 

She doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t explain her reaction or what this object is or what anything means. 

Louis doesn’t ask.

 

  

It has started to drizzle when Louis meets Harry at the parked car, shopping bag full with a variety of biscuits, dog treats, and a few packets of paracetamol. The small sachet is in his coat pocket, burning through three layers of fabric and sitting hot against his skin. Louis still feels a bit shaken up, the smell of myrrh and brandy stuck in his nose, the taste still lingering on his tongue and sticking to the back of his throat. 

“That’s a lot of biscuits,” Harry comments superfluously, like Louis doesn’t know that himself, when they get into the car and Louis puts the bag on the floor next to Puck, who’s quickly starting to nose into it.

“I’m stocking up,” Louis explains, pulling his dog away from the packaged goods. “And they had a two for one deal. How was the museum?” he asks as they pull out of the parking lot, drops hitting the windscreen in quicker succession and running down the glass in rivulets. 

“Small,” Harry replies, “but it was interesting. That photo gallery with all these black and white shots was incredible. So was the church.” 

“Get inspired?” 

“Kind of. I need to talk to my editor about a few things before I start writing everything up, and I still hope I’ll get a few details from the police, but today’s mostly been about embellishments; making the story richer.” He waits for the only traffic light in the entire area to turn green before turning left, heading back towards Rosedale Abbey. “Sorry, it’s probably stupid to talk to you about it. I mean, it’s work for me, but it’s not for you, is it? Am I being insensitive?” 

“It’s fine,” Louis sighs. The drops are getting heavier by the second, sky nearly black. “I’d just rather not talk or hear about it for the rest of the day.” 

“Sorry,” Harry says again, and switches on the headlights, which don’t improve the visibility very much. He’s driving considerably slower than before, the rain slowly transforming into a nearly impenetrable curtain. Harry curses quietly under his breath. “So what did you do, other than buy biscuits?”

“Went to see an old friend of me Nan’s. Had a drink and a chat,” he says, keeping the most important parts of the meeting with Mrs. Appleton to himself. Louis hopes his face doesn’t show what really went down. “She never had any kids and her husband passed away ages ago, so she doesn’t really have anyone around anymore.” 

“That’s nice of you,” Harry responds, the car now positively creeping along the road, almost at a walking pace. 

“She’s great. A bit quirky, a little bit extra, but…I guess we both need a reminder once in a while.” 

He looks to the side and watches as Harry squints, concentrating on picking out the road in what can now only be described as a torrential downpour. With the route back up and along the valley consisting only of a narrow, winding road, it’s probably not a good idea to keep going in these conditions. 

“Pull over after the next corner,” he tells Harry, who looks at him, slightly puzzled. “You can’t even see the road at this point. It’s better to wait it out,” Louis elaborates, “and from experience, the rain will let up in half an hour and it’ll be much safer to drive.” 

There’s a small parking bay ahead, used mainly for the views on any other day, tourists stopping to get their cameras out. Now it’s deserted and the gravel crunches under the wheels of the car, barely audible against the soundtrack of rain hitting the roof and windscreen. Puck yawns and pokes his nose against Louis’ leg, but Louis watches as Harry puts the car into park and pulls the handbrake up. Then Harry sighs and leans back, hand running through his long and slightly damp hair, head dropping against the headrest. 

“So,” Harry says, and Louis feels his lips twitch.

“So,” he echoes, saying nothing else. He’s not quite sure what to say, if he’s being honest. It still feels odd, this desire to talk to Harry without knowing how to articulate the ruckus in his brain. There’s something that still remains unspoken between them, and Louis thinks he might have an inkling what it is, but he doesn’t want to assume, and he certainly doesn’t want to be proven wrong. 

“So,” Harry repeats with the hint of a smile. “Were you close? Your grandmother and you?”

It’s not what Louis expects him to ask, so he blinks dumbly at Harry for a beat. “I guess so, in some ways more than others. But I think – I guess I’d like to think now that we were a lot closer than we actually were.” He doesn’t need to go on. He shouldn’t go on. For reasons Louis can’t fathom, he still does. “We had a fight, and then I left for Manchester without saying goodbye. We never spoke again and – yeah,” he sighs. “Maybe not close at all, if I’m being honest.” 

“What did you fight about?” 

Louis can barely swallow the truth back down, making it sit heavily in his stomach, because Harry’s expression of open sympathy and interest is shockingly disarming, making his mouth want to run loose. “Nothing in particular,” he lies, and can’t help but think back to that day, can still feel the terror and confusion that had gripped hold of him, all masked by raw anger he’d directed at his Nan. He’d screamed at her until his voice had been lost and it had angered him even more that she’d downright refused to raise her voice in response. “Nothing important, in retrospect,” and that might be as close to the truth as he’s willing to go. 

“Makes me glad that,” Harry starts but pauses to clear his throat, worry his lips and stare at his lap for a moment before looking up and meeting Louis’ gaze again. “Makes me glad that we’re getting a chance to, you know, resolve everything. Despite the circumstances.” 

Louis guesses there’s some truth to that as well. “Even if we hadn’t, it wouldn’t have been your fault.” 

“You think so?” Harry asks, sounding almost surprised. “Yeah, you left, but I – I let you, didn’t I? Probably could’ve been a bit more persistent, tried harder to contact you or find you, instead of feeling sorry for myself for way longer than what’s appropriate.” He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Ask Niall. Cried on him for weeks.” 

“I’m sorry,” Louis feels the need to say again, but Harry waves it off. 

“What did we say about apologising?” His lips quirk and his brows rise, his eyes green and clear in spite of the weather outside. “I’m just happy we’re both here now.” 

Louis doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips together and looks at Harry and feels how the air inside the car shifts, how something that was very much askew before tilts into place now. Outside, it looks like doom is near, like the apocalypse is happening right this instant, rain falling around them and pounding onto the roof in quick and heavy rhythm. The road is hardly distinguishable, and Louis can only guess where gentle hills build up into a much wilder and rougher terrain. Distractedly, he wonders if he’s closed all the windows in the house, if the roof is holding up or if there are any more leaks that might lead to more water damage, more puddles in the attic, soaking the old carpets and trickling into the wooden floorboards. 

They’re completely cut off from the world, and Louis figures that’s how it needs to be. He’s gone through it in his head more times than he’s ready to admit, but even if Harry weren’t living in London, even if he were closer, Louis knows there is no scenario in which this…thing between them can flourish again. Which is why he should pull his hand away when Harry reaches for it, and yet he doesn’t; he allows Harry to take his hand over the console while a knot manifests in his chest and his throat tightens. 

He shouldn’t allow Harry to intertwine their fingers and brush a thumb delicately over the back of Louis’ hand. 

Louis feels out of breath, and he can barely stand to look at Harry. “Are you sure you want to open that can of worms again?” 

Harry pulls a face. “Can of worms? Yikes. Don’t think that’s how I’d describe it.” His grimace turns into a warm and genuine smile that warms Louis down to his slightly clammy toes. “But using your lovely metaphor – I don’t really think we ever closed that can in the first place.” 

“We left it open for five years.” 

“Maybe it needed some airing out,” Harry shrugs easily, “and maybe we needed that time as well. I’m pretty sure I did. I mean, I was really fucking upset and angry for a long time, but I was so focused on you, so zeroed in on our relationship that I don’t think I’d have gone after this job and many other things if you hadn’t broken my heart. Put things into perspective, I guess. And I think people were kind of glad I didn’t start every sentence with ‘Louis said’.” 

Louis laughs at that, bringing his right hand up to his lips to muffle the sound. He shakes his head to himself and sighs. “Well, I did have a lot to say.” And, after a moment, he adds, “and perhaps you’re right. We were a bit obsessed, weren’t we?” 

Harry smiles so wide that his eyes crinkle, dimples coming back in full force. It’s not like Louis ever stood a chance. “Only a bit,” he agrees, and holds Louis’ hand just a tad tighter.

 

 

The sky brightens only half an hour later. The rest of the drive back to the village is peaceful and Louis finds it hard to comprehend that it’s just getting dark and so much has happened since they found the body out on the moors. It’s been almost too easy to forget about it, being a bit drunk on Harry and all, but as soon as he’s back out in the open, air still damp and smelling of the rain that has just stopped, he feels the heavy weight of Mrs. Appleton’s sachet in his pocket, and the almost numbing presence of the moors in his back. 

He doesn’t have much time to bury whatever it is Mrs. Appleton has given him before he needs to take Puck out on their usual evening walk, but it’s hard to part with Harry, and so they both linger in the car park and it takes Louis far too long to thank Harry and wave goodbye. 

The closer he gets to his house, the heavier he feels. Even Puck is subdued, picking up on the mood shift and staying close by his side. The house is cold and dark, and Louis doesn’t bother taking off his shoes and jacket before crossing the ground floor and walking out into the overgrown garden through the small utility room. 

The garden furniture is stacked to the right, in the far corner of the stone terrace that is cracked in many places, weeds growing in the gaps, with a plastic cover to shield off at least some of the weather. The garden itself is expansive, but largely wild, since his grandmother hadn’t believed in landscaping and Louis doesn’t believe in gardening at all. The grass is long, more weeds sticking out and growing impressively tall, and farther towards the back, where the terrain starts getting steeper, it’s mostly shrubs and trees creating a natural border around the vast property. 

Louis grabs a shovel from the small shed that’s standing on the other side of the terrace and makes his way across the lawn only a few yards before kneeling down, wet soil almost instantly giving way under his weight, water and mud squelching. He digs the shovel into the ground and heaves out a few handfuls of nearly black earth before reaching into his pocket and taking out the small sachet. Placing it at the bottom of the small hole, Louis sits back on his haunches, heart pounding. 

He wants to know what’s inside, but there’s a part of him that just knows he’d regret the decision to look, so he forces his hands to stay by his side, watches as loosened-up soil slowly starts to cover the sachet before he piles everything he’s dug up on top of it. Louis gets to his feet and stamps on it a few times to make sure the damn thing stays in the ground. His pulse is racing once he finishes, and there is something else thrumming through his body that he can’t exactly place. It’s unfamiliar, and it tingles like a million ants crawling right underneath his skin. 

It’s still unnervingly quiet. 

Feeling slightly unsteady on his feet, he goes back inside, picks up the shopping bag from where he dropped it by the door, and walks into the kitchen, where Puck is already sitting in front of the fridge and wagging his tail. Louis drops the biscuits on the table with a weary sigh and brings a hand up to his face to rub at his tired eyes. 

“I got you some Oreo’s,” he says without looking up and grips the back of a chair tightly to stop his hands from trembling. “No idea if you like ‘em, but they were on offer. I’m going to leave them all on the table for you, next to your damn clue that I still can’t make sense of, so maybe you can be a bit clearer with the next hint you give me, okay?” 

He doesn’t wait for a response, only calls for his dog and heads out into the hallway towards the front door. Louis still has some chalk in his pocket and he leaves his phone in there as well, just in case. Not because he’s worried, or scared, or anything like that, just – just in case. Only pausing for a moment to put on his hat and a scarf, Louis opens the front door again and ushers Puck outside. 

The sun has almost completely set and the valley is dark, just a hint of light where the moor is the highest, brushing against the sky. Somehow, it suddenly feels a bit daunting, the prospect of traipsing around in the dark for an hour. But Louis shakes his head, willing those thoughts to go away, because this is what he’s been doing for five years, and it’s always been fine, and it will be fine tonight. He’s just allowing the general public’s distress to get to him when he should really know better. 

“Come on, boy,” he tells Puck, and together they leave the property to head north.

 

  

Louis knows this place like the back of his hand. These days he feels connected to it and in tune with it, and even growing up, when he’d felt nothing but contempt for being trapped, he’d never…he’d never been scared. Even sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night and jumping across the river with Liam where it was narrow enough had never been anything but exhilarating. 

Now, the moors are gripped by an almost violent silence. 

Taking his usual route, Louis stops exactly four times to redraw a few signs, and each time his chalk touches stone, he feels a tremor run through his entire body, from head to toe, making him shudder. But perhaps it’s not him who shudders. There seems to be an undercurrent in the ground wherever he puts his feet down, like the earth is twitching with every step. Maybe Louis is finally going completely crazy. 

He’s not scared, but he doesn’t know how else to describe what he’s feeling, tension turning his back and shoulders practically rigid, and he can’t help but wonder if he’s being watched. Louis’ never felt relieved after finishing the walk, because it’s become so routine, but he heaves out a long breath when, after around fifty minutes, he finally starts the descent towards the village. 

Rosedale Abbey is dark when he passes through it, walking along the main street that cuts straight through the middle. The odd window is still alight, but otherwise it remains almost solemn, even in the early hours of the evening. It’s like everyone has suddenly gone into hiding, hoping that fewer lights will bring safety from whatever is happening out there. At least the Inn is still alight, and Louis plays with the idea of going inside, joining Liam and Geoff and Karen for dinner, but he doesn’t think he can handle it today. 

Louis needs a cuppa, and maybe he can reheat some of Karen’s stew, but what he needs most of all is sleep. A few hours of undisturbed sleep. He doesn’t think that’s too much to ask, especially given that not even twenty-four hours ago, he’d nearly slipped on a woman’s innards. 

As expected, when he gets home and walks into the kitchen after ridding himself of jacket, shoes, and hat, there’s a biscuit wrapper on the floor, and the table’s surface is dusted with crumbs. He bends down to throw the wrapper into the trash and straightens again to take care of the mess that is his kitchen table when he sees it and inadvertently freezes. 

There’s a notebook lying next to the now-withered thistle; a notebook that very definitely wasn’t there before, and it’s opened up to what appears to be a very specific page. Even from a distance, Louis can recognise his grandmother’s handwriting. Just as he’s about to step closer, he feels cold breath against his neck, making his skin break out in goosebumps. 

He spins around on his heels. Dark eyes, black pools even in the light of the kitchen, are pinned on him, and piercing into his own. 

“Do you always need to creep up on me?” Louis asks, and breathes out, willing his pulse to slow down again.

A hand lifts in response, and Louis follows the movement with his gaze, doesn’t dare to move, not even when there’s a barely-there touch to his shoulder. Fingers are dragged along his collarbone, spreading a strange sort of heat that pulses right beneath Louis’ skin, and he’s just about to ask what the hell is going on when sharp nails prick and break skin through his shirt. Louis gasps and flinches, but he can’t move away, is nearly paralysed with the electric current shooting through him. It’s like – like something is being poured into his body, fizzling and yet hot and syrupy, and it makes Louis gasp for air. The eyes are unwavering and betray not a single emotion, and then, as suddenly as it began – it’s over. 

“Son of a bitch!” 

Louis’ knees nearly buckle, and the next second, he’s alone in the kitchen, only his dog whining quietly from the doorway. His shoulder throbs and Louis almost expects it to be bleeding, but when he brings his hand back from touching the juncture of his neck, there’s nothing. But he feels it, he knows there’s something there, and he’s afraid to look. 

He can barely control his body and it moves on its own, turning back around to drag him to the table where the notebook lies open. For a moment, the words are swimming in front of his eyes and he can’t make sense of any of them, not even when he squints. It takes a while, probably minutes, while the pain in his shoulder subsides, but a strange sensation remains; warm, like the whisper of fingertips brushing skin and yet paradoxically penetrating it. 

Louis rubs his shoulder, squeezes down on the muscles bunched up there, and leans over the page, black ink finally starting to solidify. There’s a date scribbled in the top right, cursive numbers and letters seamlessly connected – the eighteenth of December, 2009. Just a few days before he’d turned eighteen, he recollects, and only a handful of months before he’d left. A couple of the first words are smudged and barely distinguishable. 

He squints. “ _Today_ ,” Louis reads out loud, ignoring the lasting sensation in his shoulder, “ _there was a thistle on the front porch._ ” 

He stills as it sinks in. Part of him doesn’t want to go on. The last time he’d snooped around in his grandmother’s notebooks, it had led to him deciding that he was going to leave and never ever come back. But back then, he supposes, things had been vastly different. This is something that Louis wants and needs to know, and he hopes there’s never left that can shock him quite like that. 

His eyes refocus on the short but expressive sentences as he reads about his Nan going through the exact same research process that Louis had started in the morning, reaching the exact same conclusions that Louis has reached so far, where nothing makes a lot of sense. But unlike himself, his grandmother knew the content of every single book in this house and she would have known where to find what she was looking for. 

So it’s unsurprising when, towards the middle of the page, she mentions a book that sounds familiar to Louis, not because he’s read it, but because he thinks he’s seen it lying about; a big, heavy tome with fading lettering on the worn leather cover. 

“ _Mainly understood as a symbol for protection_ _in Celtic and Basque lore_ ,” Louis mutters to himself. “Protection against what though?” 

His Nan had asked herself the same question. And, according to what she writes in the next paragraph, she hadn’t figured out the exact answer, but instead stumbled over something else entirely. Louis stares at the words written there, blood running cold, and he goes over them again, and again, and again, but they don’t miraculously create a meaning other than the one that’s already chilling Louis to his bones. 

_The milk thistle in particular,_ it says on the page, _has not only been used in protective spells, but also to reverse those already in place._

Louis’ shoulder is still tingling, and he utters a curse under his breath as his mind begins to reel. There is one more sentence right at the bottom of the page, standing out and underlined two times in emphasis. Four words, letters shaky, as if his grandmother’s hand had been trembling at the time, which, as Louis understands now, is very likely. His own fingers are shaking on the tabletop, sinews standing out from the tension that’s gripping his body. 

Louis tries to swallow around the lump growing in his throat. He feels like he’s going to choke on it, wants to shut the notebook and forget all about it; forget about this morning and what has been happening for weeks and just – just not be in this place and be surrounded by these things that are supposed to make sense to him and be alone, just so fucking alone in all of this and – 

“Fuck,” he mutters. He rubs over his watering eyes, puts pressure on his lids, but the four words remain burned into the back of them, painful and present. 

_‘They want him back.’_

 

 

_***_

 

_to be continued..._

 

 


	4. IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks raw. It looks as unruly as Louis feels inside sometimes, his soul dragged over the ground with broad strokes, lacking the sweetness the blooming of the heather brings in spring and summer. He thinks Harry would like the look of the moors in the summer – a bit brighter, a bit more colourful, a bit more _alive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay. not much to say today except for HOLY SHIT london is too cold for spring.
> 
> thanks as always goes to geeb for being the bestest beta one could wish for.
> 
> feel free to come talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the few original characters that float around in the background. This is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities with reality are unintended and incidental.
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: swearing, as usual

***

 

CHAPTER IV.

 

 

Louis doesn’t see them when he goes to bed that night, and he doesn’t see them when he wakes only a few hours later after a restless night and gets dressed at dawn. He feels disconnected when he leaves his house and he feels strangely suspended when he walks Puck. The feeling sticks to him even when he gets back and heads upstairs to have a shower, relying on routine and muscle memory to get him through the morning. Louis doesn’t see them when he strips and steps into the cubicle and he doesn’t see them when he lathers his still slightly numb body with soap. 

But he does see them when he steps out, towel around his waist, and wipes condensation off the bathroom mirror. 

“What the –” Louis startles so violently that he nearly slips on the wet tiles. He just manages to grab the sink to steady his body, but looking at his reflection in the mirror, he thinks he might collapse after all. 

His shoulder, still quietly tingling away, is covered in black lines and abstract shapes that slowly fade as they stretch over his collarbone and towards his heart, like black ink trickling into damp paper. For a minute, Louis can’t move; for a minute, Louis feels like his heart actually stops beating. 

He turns his head slowly, praying that his mind is simply playing tricks on him, but then he sees the marks in his flesh. Bringing his right hand up, he carefully touches his skin, almost expects the lines to smudge when he presses his fingers to them, but nothing of the sort happens. They’re like a tattoo he never got. And Louis isn’t ignorant enough to deny that they look familiar, and why. 

That doesn’t stop the panic that’s rapidly growing and gaining momentum and gripping Louis tightly, his head spinning as he turns on the faucet and bends down to grab a washcloth from the cabinet underneath the sink. He drenches it in scalding hot water and generous dollops of liquid soap and he starts rubbing his shoulder, becoming more and more frantic, dragging the cloth over his skin over and over again until his skin is burning with it. 

Nothing happens. The marks don’t disappear, of course they don’t, and Louis spins around on his heels, flings the washcloth across the room, and drops to his knees. There’s a small emergency kit stashed away and Louis pulls it out, empties its content onto the bathmat he’s kneeling on, heart pounding painfully in his chest. He sees bandages and plasters and he grabs both, unravelling the gauze bandages and blindly wrapping them around his shoulder. 

Louis knows it won’t do anything, but he doesn’t care. He just can’t look at it. He needs to forget it’s there. Having made sure he can move his arm without a problem, Louis tapes the ends of the bandages to his skin and puts everything back into the small box. Then he stands on shaky legs and dares a glance into the mirror, observing with relief that he has managed to hide most of the marks, only a few dark lines peeking out just below his collarbone. 

He dries the rest of his body almost mechanically and goes back to his bedroom, where he rummages around in his drawers for a long-sleeved t-shirt. Only when he’s fully dressed, with a large sweatshirt providing another layer to shield his shoulder from view, does Louis start to calm down slightly. Maybe it will fade in a few hours or a few days, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all. 

Louis knows better. He just chooses to ignore that.

  

 

He gets rid of the thistle with gardening gloves, tossing it into the wood burner, and Louis is half tempted to throw his grandmother’s notebook straight after it. In the end he doesn’t, but he does bury it in one of the drawers in the hallway cabinet, under a dozen letters and a heavy, outdated phonebook. Then he heads back into the kitchen and starts cleaning the table, sweeping up dried bits of soil and biscuit crumbs before moving on to clean the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. 

It’s quiet. Apart from the steady stream of water from the tap and cups clanking together, there’s not a sound to be heard. Louis used to hate the nearly depressing silence that would settle over this place from time to time, like when his Nan would disappear into the cellar and not resurface for hours. Now he welcomes it, makes sure to keep his breathing deep and regular while he does menial tasks and sorts through the mess in his head. 

Louis spends the rest of the morning completing tasks he’d usually avoid as long as possible, like cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, and airing the upper floors to dry out any dampness that still clings to the house from yesterday’s downpour. Puck runs around in the garden while Louis drags the hoover across the entire house because he’s terrified of the thing, and it’s not until noon that Louis can put it away again. He’s not a particularly thorough cleaner, at least not according to his Nan’s rather high standards, and Louis tends to stick to cleaning the few rooms he actually inhabits. 

The house is just too big for one person, Louis thinks with a sigh as he makes sure all the windows are shut again and there’s no water leaking through the old roof. There are too many rooms and nooks and corners, too much furniture that is God-knows-how-old, and too many damn antiques Louis wants to get rid of but can’t. Sometimes he feels like he’s living in a museum -- or perhaps mausoleum would be a better description, since everything’s slowly rotting away. 

Louis is on his third cup of tea when the doorbell rings. Assuming it to be Liam, he makes his way to the front door and opens it without a second thought. But the person standing on his porch is not Liam, or anyone else on the list of people who usually knock on his door. To be fair, that’s a small number to begin with, but this is really not who he was expecting. 

“James!” Louis blurts out, probably blinking rather dumbly at the man in front of him. He doesn’t think he’s seen him since the funeral five years ago. “What are you doing here?” 

James smiles at Louis, his formerly clean-shaven cheeks now covered with what can probably be described as a seven-day beard. He’s wearing a dark, heavy coat and a pristine white shirt that contrasts sharply with it; there’s a badge pinned to his lapel. “It’s Detective Corden now. I’m here on duty,” James says, pointing to that very badge. He must see the unease on Louis’ face, so he’s quick to add, “but only kind of. I mainly wanted to talk to you.” 

Louis heaves out a sigh and brushes a hand over his face. “Inspector James already grilled me thoroughly.” 

“Ah, yes,” James chuckles, “Greg likes to come on strong to distract from the fact he’s a big softie.” 

“Like you?” 

James winks at him. “Careful, lad. I’m on your side.” 

Louis lifts his brows. “Are you?” James responds with a loaded look and Louis opens the door a bit wider. “Want a cuppa?” 

“Not going to say no to that,” James tells him and Louis turns on his heels to lead him into the kitchen, even though James should know his way around well enough. “Like what you’ve done with the place,” James adds, because he’ll always be a little shit. 

“Thanks,” Louis throws back with a roll of his eyes. He heads straight to the kettle, refilling it with water and getting a second cup out of the cupboard. “Milk? Sugar?” 

“Both, please,” James replies and, a moment later, says, “oh, and who’s that?” 

It doesn’t take more than a second for Louis to hear Puck growl quietly from where he’s claimed the warmest spot in the kitchen, in front of the range. He smiles to himself, getting milk and sugar out, before turning around to face James. 

“I wouldn’t go too close. He’s not overly fond of people he doesn’t know.” 

James’ gaze flickers up to him. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh?” he asks, pulling a chair out. Sitting down, he puts his elbows on the table and threads his fingers together. “So. How’re you holding up?” 

Louis shrugs. “Hanging in there. Don’t really have much of a choice. How’s the family?” 

“They’re doing well,” James replies. “Enjoying the milder climate down south, I think. Not that they’d admit it. My dad doesn’t do anything but curse Devon whenever I speak to him on the phone. They miss this place as much as I do.” 

“You’re not that far away, though,” Louis counters, folding his arms in front of his chest. The movement makes his jumper and undershirt drag over the bandages, and he feels an unpleasant prickling at the back of his neck. Louis tries rolling his head subtly to get rid of the sensation, but it doesn’t really work. 

“I know, I know,” James says, holding up his right hand in submission. “But since my parents moved away there aren’t any reasons to make the drive. Especially with the workload that’s come with my promotion. And with Rosedale being out in the sticks and usually not exactly crime-ridden…” He leaves the end of the sentence open. Everyone is aware that what’s been and still is happening is highly unusual and unexpected. “Normally, they wouldn’t send a detective out here.” 

“Then why’re you here now?” Louis asks. “Not that I’m not relieved to see you,” he adds, “but – why now?” 

The kettle whistles and Louis lifts it off the hob, pours scalding hot water into a cup, and gets the sugar. He stirs it in, spoon clanking against the brim, then he presses the spoon against the teabag and watches as the brew turns darker by the second. Adding the milk, he stirs it for another moment before fishing out the bag and dropping it into the sink. James gives him a smile when Louis puts the cup down in front of him. 

“Thanks, lad.” He cradles the cup in his hands, probably warming them up because they’re still cold thanks to the sodding weather outside. Louis doubts it will get any better before spring. “Well, I’m here because of what you found yesterday, at least partially. The department is putting more people on the job, because it looks like the situation is escalating a little. But I volunteered because – well. I figured it would help having someone heading the team who is…familiar with this place.” 

James adjusts the collar of his surprisingly neatly pressed shirt, has a sip of his tea and clears his throat. “And as much as Greg is a softie, he’s also very ambitious. It’s probably in everyone’s best interest that he doesn’t start digging. So mainly, I’m here to take some heat off of you and make sure that investigations take a certain direction away from the truth.” 

Hearing that, Louis lets out a long breath and drops down onto the chair opposite James. 

“You don’t look too relieved.” 

“No, I am,” Louis quickly reassures James, “it’s just been a crazy couple of weeks. And I’m glad you’re here, I really am. I just wish it wouldn’t have been necessary.” 

James hums quietly and has a bit more of his tea. “So there’s nothing you can share with me at this stage? Not that you need to, I’m happy to let you do your thing. But if there is anything I can do, let me know.” 

“It’s all up in the air at the moment, I’m afraid,” Louis says and just about manages to suppress a weary sigh. It’s all he seems to be doing these days. “But I’m – I’m trying to tie a few loose ends together, see if that stops what’s going on; if that resets the balance. Maybe…maybe a curfew could help. An official curfew. Not just restricted to Rosedale Abbey, but the area.” 

“We can put that into a press release,” James nods. “Advise people to be home at a certain time and not go out hiking alone, or when it’s still dark. If you think that might help.” 

“I don’t know. But to be honest, that’s all I’ve got right now.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Louis can hear the grandfather clock in one of the smaller and unused sitting rooms ticking away with a steady beat, Puck’s irregular huffs and growls breaking up the pattern. Louis does feel relieved that James is back, especially if it means Inspector James is backing off a little and not showing up with a search warrant or anything like it. There’ll definitely be an upside to not being treated like the prime suspect anymore. 

But Louis can’t ignore the subtle throbbing of his shoulder that feels like he’s constantly pressing down on a bruise. And he can’t help but feel an almost unbearable pressure to finally put an end to what is – put bluntly – a mindless killing spree. Everyone has been looking to him for answers and now James is doing that too, is probably risking a whole fucking lot because he knows this place and he knows Louis and he trusts him, even though Louis probably doesn’t deserve it. 

James clearing his throat once again pulls Louis out of his thoughts, and he lifts his gaze to meet James’. 

“Have you heard anything from your mother lately?” James asks, managing to find the one subject Louis finds even more uncomfortable than five dead people out on the moors. 

A joyless laugh breaks out of him before Louis can stop it and shaking his head to himself, he plasters a wry smile onto his face. “What do you think? She didn’t even come to Nan’s funeral because she loathes this place so much. Sent a card, though. Apparently life in Bournemouth and the kids were keeping her far too busy.” 

He doesn’t want James’ pity, or even his sympathy. It had stung at the time, grief coupled with disappointment that she wouldn’t even travel up north to bury her own mother, but Louis gets it; doesn’t even blame her. She’s built a different life for herself, with a different family that he wasn’t and never will be part of. But it’s still strange to be reminded that his mother had been a part of this community once, that she and James had known each other quite well, that he has very different memories of her than Louis does. 

“Sorry to hear that,” James says eventually. “I thought she might want to get back in touch. But then again, she was never overly fond of the village. It’s a pity you got caught in the crossfire.” 

Louis presses his lips together. He doesn’t say that he’s most likely the reason she’s not overly fond of this place. “Well, nothing I can do about that,” he responds with a shrug and flicks an overlooked biscuit crumb off the table.

  

 

He walks back to the village centre with James when it’s just past noon, clouds starting to lift enough to give hope that the sun might peek past them some time later today. Louis contemplates whether to pop round the Harveys’ place after lunch, then listens to James as he talks a bit about his family, a recent match at Old Trafford, and his hate for Manchester City. James is a calming presence – or as calming as anything can be at this point. 

James has his car parked in front of the Inn and Louis assumes he dropped in to say hello to Karen and Geoff. It’s right next to the sleek, shiny Audi Louis is now very familiar with, so he guesses Harry isn’t far, either. He says goodbye to James with a promise to keep him updated, and James vowing to keep Louis informed as well, then he makes his way inside. Karen always wants him to join them for lunch, since she’s worried about his ability to properly feed himself. She’s not wrong in the sense that Louis’ culinary skills don’t extend past frying the odd egg, but Liam’s mother tends to get a little overbearing from time to time. 

But instead of being greeted by the sound pots clanking loudly in the kitchen, Louis’ met with a flustered Karen in coat and scarf, digging through her purse. 

“Oh,” she looks up in surprise when Louis enters the lobby. “Oh my, I meant to call you, dear. I’m so sorry. Ruth is not feeling particularly well, so I’m driving to Scarborough to make sure she’s got everything she needs.”

“Is she okay?” 

Karen waves him off. “She’s got a very persistent flu, and you know how she gets. Silly girl puts it off until she needs antibiotics and can’t even leave the bed to get herself some tea.” She finds her car keys in a small side compartment of her bag and clutches them to her chest. “Geoff’s poring over the books, and Liam’s helping Hamish at the farm; says it leaked through the barn’s roof again. No wonder with all that nasty weather we’ve been having.” 

Stepping closer to Louis, Karen lifts her free hand and fusses with the collar of his coat for a moment before saying, “But I’ve put some sandwiches together from last night’s chicken, so –” 

“You didn’t need to, Karen,” Louis cuts her off quickly. “I can just –” 

“Nonsense,” she shushes him firmly. “And I wasn’t finished. Harry’s been working in the back room all morning, and he looks like he’s barely slept, so I thought it would be nice if the two of you went out for some air together. He’s mentioned wanting to explore the area a bit.” She’s smiling at him sweetly, and not like she’s basically hustling him out to someone she hardly knows. He can’t even be annoyed, because he knows how concerned Karen is about him – how she worries that he’ll die a hermit, completely cut off from the world and desperately alone. Louis doesn’t mind being alone. 

“Take the sandwiches and some water and show him around a little, hm? The sun’s meant to come out today. You’ll have a lovely view over the moor.” 

Louis raises his eyebrows. “What, you’re letting me go out with a boy? Without a chaperone?” 

She doesn’t pinch his cheek, but Louis sees her fingers twitch like she really, really wants to. Chuckling to herself, Karen levels him with an unimpressed gaze. “Don’t get cheeky with me, young man. I think we both know that ship sailed a long time ago. Although,” she adds with a wink, “that one is far easier on the eye than the rest. If I were twenty years younger and he’d be inclined that way…” 

“Oh god,” Louis groans, feeling heat crawl up his neck, “please don’t ever say that again.” 

“I’m just saying it as it is,” Karen defends herself, then leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll be back late tonight. Sandwiches are in the kitchen. Go get your boy.”

“He’s not my –” Louis starts, but Karen is out the door before he can finish. Sighing heavily, he rubs a hand over his probably slightly flushed face. He tells Puck to stay, then he ventures towards the back room, because he has no doubt Karen has already instructed Harry in case Louis dared to chicken out. 

He finds Harry in the back room, sitting at the table closest to the wood burner, laptop open in front of him and notebook by his side. His hair is pulled up and skilfully spun into a bun, and Louis doesn’t think he’s paid attention to how long it’s actually gotten since they’d parted ways. He remembers Harry telling him about wanting to grow it out years ago, just after he’d gotten a trim that had left his curls barely brushing his ears. It’s suddenly strange that he wasn’t there to witness it grow, and Louis feels a sharp pang in his chest, standing there and once again drinking in how similar and how different Harry looks at the same time. 

His stubble is patchy, but it’s there, and he’s still slim, yet broad at the same time – well, broader than Louis, at least. He’s probably added another inch to his height as well. Peeking out behind the open collar of Harry’s shirt are the two swallows Louis still adores, and there’s no doubt in his mind that Harry’s added more ink in recent years. And that hurts even more, thinking about being entirely in the dark about the reasons behind them and their meanings; thinking about Harry’s subtle-but-not-subtle-at-all hints that he’d love for them to have a matching set, and Louis refusing to acknowledge it for very specific reasons. 

The carefully concealed lines now adorning his shoulders are kind of like a slap in the face. Sometimes Louis really hates irony. 

“Hey,” he says after clearing his throat. 

Harry’s head snaps up, allowing their gazes to meet, and Louis’ heart leaps in his chest. He does look tired, Louis thinks distractedly, a hint of purple like a soft brushstroke below his eyes, his face just minimally pale. Although that might be due to the time of year and lack of sun. 

“Hey,” Harry echoes softly. “How are you, Louis?” 

“Same old. How about you? Working hard?” 

Harry pulls a face at that. “Trying to,” he says, looking slightly pained. “Nasty case of writer’s block. I keep getting distracted.” 

Louis furrows his brows, eyes darting around the room. There’s nothing in here but the wood burner, tables and chairs, and a few ink drawings of Rosedale Abbey and the moors adorning the walls. “Distracted by what?” 

Shrugging with an odd look on his face, Harry says, “Thinking of you,” and Louis feels all the air escape his lungs just like that, leaving him light-headed and heavy-hearted. The sheer shock of Harry’s easy admission must show on his face, because it doesn’t take long for Harry to bite down on his lips. “Sorry. I’m coming on too strong, aren’t I?” 

“No, I’m just – you know –” Louis blurts out, completely flustered and dizzy, hearing his own heartbeat far too loudly in his own ears, feeling it reverberating in his chest, tickling his ribs. He guesses it’s already happening, Harry practically digging into his chest and carving out his old space with his bare hands so violently it hurts. How is Louis supposed to deal with this? “You want to…pack up? Go for a walk? Karen though it might be a good idea.” 

Harry’s expression relaxes a little, but it also closes off as much and Louis – well. What was he supposed to say to that? They’ve come such a long way in only a few days, leaping ahead like they had when they’d first met, falling in face first and head over heels and spiralling out of control like Louis never believed possible, and the fact that it’s happening again, albeit differently, doesn’t make it feel any more controlled. 

And it doesn’t matter anyway, is what he has to keep telling himself, because no matter what they resolve or do or talk about or confess, it’s not going to change anything at all. Louis just finds it harder and harder to keep that from Harry, who’s bounding ahead – maybe not without any worry in the world, but surely with significantly more optimism than Louis. 

“That sounds great,” Harry says and gets up, revealing denim-clad thighs that don’t exactly clear Louis’ clouded head. “I’ll just put away my stuff. Meet you out front in five?” 

“Sure.” Louis continues to feel a tad breathless, especially when Harry brushes past him with a smile, faint whiff of cologne and _boy_ hitting him more intensely than he would have anticipated. “Fucking get ahold of yourself,” he mutters to himself under his breath as soon as Harry is out of earshot. “Bloody pathetic.” 

Louis refrains from whacking himself across the face before making a quick dash into the kitchen, where Karen has neatly packed up sandwiches and a packet of chocolate-covered digestives in a small backpack. There’s also a small note that simply states to be safe, which once again makes him blush beyond belief, and he stays in the kitchen for a moment, just calmly taking in air through his nose until he can at least hear himself think again. 

Puck, bless him, is obediently waiting for him in front of the door, tongue lolling out and wagging his tail like the obedient soul that he is. He probably wouldn’t leave even if Louis told him to. Maybe that’s what Louis should focus on. It’s him and his stupid dog now and it’ll be him and his dog in a year, or in ten. Unless they all end up dead, of course. Or worse. Louis hasn’t quite figured that out yet. 

“Be nice,” he tells Puck, because he’s an idiot who talks to his dog more than he talks to actual people, and he’s slightly worried Puck is going to attach himself to Harry. With his teeth. Louis wonders if he should pop in the office and tell Geoff they’re going out, because it would be sensible to do so, but it’s already too much with Liam and Karen practically breathing down his neck about Harry, so he decides against it and steps outside. 

It’s still cold, but milder than it’s been for weeks, blue already starting to peek through the clouds, the air crisp and fresh. Puck sneezes about half a dozen times before scampering off towards the edge of the car park, because he’s always eager to get out, probably already picking up scents of various birds and rodents in the area. Louis hopes he won’t catch anything this time. 

More than that, he hopes they won’t stumble over another body. 

Louis turns his head when he hears the door fall shut, Harry walking down the steps, gravel crunching beneath his neon-yellow trainers and a heavy scarf draped around his neck. He still looks out of place. He still looks like a tourist. But Louis doubts that will change. 

“Ready?” Louis asks, a quirk to his lips. 

“Definitely,” Harry replies, his eyes shimmering excitedly, his cheeks already rosy from the wind. A few curls are already coming loose, soft baby hair twitching in the timid breeze, and Louis allows himself a brief moment to watch. 

Then he leads the way.

 

 

Louis chooses one of the more scenic routes, if it can be called that. He finds it hard to be objective; finds it hard to look at this place from an outsider’s perspective and take it in like they’d probably take it in. They don’t talk, but out of the corner of his eyes, Louis sees Harry’s gaze sweeping over the surrounding area, finally not hidden behind clouds anymore. Sloping hills lead up to the moorland plateau in its brown hues with the odd speckle of green and a little shimmer here and there where frost still clings to the shrubs. 

It looks raw. It looks as unruly as Louis feels inside sometimes, his soul dragged over the ground with broad strokes, lacking the sweetness the blooming of the heather brings in spring and summer. He thinks Harry would like the look of the moors in the summer – a bit brighter, a bit more colourful, a bit more _alive_. 

It feels dead. Or perhaps dead isn’t the right word. It feels numb and suspended, like the entire moorland is collectively holding its breath waiting for – something. Louis is glad Harry doesn’t try to engage him in small talk, because right now, his head is occupied with actually hearing his own thoughts, standing in such contrast with the way noises and sounds had practically deafened his ears just days ago. It’s another reason why Louis can’t really empathise with outsiders seeing this place for the first time – he’s more used to listening to it. And it being so quiet throws him off a lot. 

Puck is trotting ahead, back bowed and nose on the ground as he takes a rather loopy route, mud already splattered on his legs and belly. When the sun finally manages to break through the clouds, it takes Louis by surprise and he has to blink against the light for a moment before his eyes adjust to the sudden burst of brightness. Next to him, Harry stumbles, and before Louis can even think about it, he’s reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him. 

“You okay?” he asks as Harry adjuststhe scarf that’s started to slide off his shoulders. “Or do you need a break?” 

“All good,” Harry insists, but he sounds mildly out of breath. Louis is used to walking a few hours every day, and at a quick pace, so he guesses he should have slowed down a little climbing up the hill. “Just a bit steeper than it looks. And slippery.” 

They keep going, Louis throwing another glance to his right, where Harry’s profile is even sharper now against the backdrop of a rapidly clearing sky. “What, no hills in Hyde Park?” 

Harry sticks his tongue out, but is quick to avert his gaze to his feet again, worried about losing his footing a second time. “Shut up. We can’t all saunter across country like a bloody ibex. Freak of nature…” 

It’s just an afterthought, a joke, Louis knows that, but something about it makes Louis’ insides clench and he awkwardly clears his throat. He doesn’t even know why, because he doesn’t want to say anything in return, and now Harry is looking at him like he expects him to speak up. So Louis bites down on his bottom lip and keeps his eyes stubbornly directed at the horizon, the moorland plateau stretching on for miles, hardly dipping in altitude. 

“So, are we going anywhere in particular?” Harry asks eventually after the silence has stretched on long enough to be considered awkward. 

Louis does have a specific spot in mind, now that he thinks of it, so he nods. “Thought you might want to see one of the highest points in the area. Nice panoramic view of the plateau and the surrounding valleys. There’s an old stone circle nearby as well.” 

“Sounds great.” 

“It’s just random rocks on the ground,” Louis replies. “Everything remotely interesting was removed a long time ago and put in museums.” 

“Interesting like what?” Harry asks, squinting against the sun, and Louis loses his train of thought for a beat. 

He shakes his head internally and refrains from pinching himself. “They found burial grounds a while ago, from the Beaker culture. Some other Bronze Age stuff. The stone circle is from around that time as well, although I’m not sure anybody knows what the use of that was.” 

“Like Stonehenge?” 

Louis chuckles. “If that’s what you’re expecting, you’ll be very disappointed,” he comments. “It really is just a couple of boulders. But from what I know, the Beakers lived on the high moors and exhausted the area, and then they moved on, so there was no reason for them to leave anything of permanence. It’s kind of weird, though,” Louis adds, “because that was thousands of years ago, yet this place looks like this, only heather and a few rocks, because of what those people did to it.” 

Harry hums. “Makes you a bit frightened for the future, doesn’t it?” And that’s not exactly what Louis is wondering about, since he’s a bit more concerned with the present at the moment, but Harry goes on before he can voice it. “Did you ever find anything interesting?” 

“A couple of stones,” Louis replies, steering them northwest. Off to the side, Puck has apparently found a nice spot to dig, his bell chiming wildly as he goes at it. “With carvings and runes. The Picts came through here as well at some point, and they had a thing for those; serpents in particular.” He doesn’t like thinking about the Picts, if he’s being honest with himself. They remind him too much of – 

“How do you know all that?” 

“Me Nan,” Louis answers with a shrug. “She liked history a lot. And geology. And she always felt like I wasn’t taught the right things in school. So she’d give me extra homework and books to read and – yeah.” 

That’s another thing that, when Louis thinks about it in retrospect, had driven a bit of a wedge between them. He can appreciate it now, her insistence that he know the history of the moors and his home and where – where he came from. 

“That’s nice.” 

“Is it?” 

“Well, I always think we know a lot about everything else,” Harry elaborates with a soft smile, “but never a lot about our own history. So yeah, I think it’s nice that you do, and that your Nan taught you about it.” 

“I guess,” Louis concedes and allows his own lips to twitch, giving the hint of a smile. “It’s not much farther, by the way. In case you’re out of breath.” 

“Hey!” Harry exclaims with fake outrage, nudging Louis with his elbow. It’s – they haven’t really touched a lot, apart from that first hug and holding hands in Harry’s car, so even through layers and layers of clothing, it makes Louis’ hair stand on end and heat fizzle down his spine. “I work out, okay? I run, and do yoga.” 

“Oh, you do _yoga_ …” 

“Fuck off!” Harry flashes him a full-on grin now and nudges him again, this time a bit harder, and this time he lingers close, doesn’t move back into his own space, their arms brushing with every further step they take. Louis’ skin tingles. “You know I’m flexible,” Harry adds, waggling his brows. 

_I do_ , Louis thinks, feeling a flush creeping into his cheeks. He remembers it far too vividly for his own good and he’s not proud of it, but he’s probably thought of it too often for it to be appropriate in the past five years. They’d been great outside the bedroom, but they’d been explosive inside it. Louis has had some really bad sex and he’s had really good sex as well, but with Harry – they’d just clicked. In every way, they had just worked, and that’s another reason why it stings. 

Thankfully, before Louis has to come up with a decent response, their destination comes into view: four overgrown rocks laid out in a straight line with only a few feet separating them from each other. 

“We’re here,” Louis says and nods towards the nearly perfect circle. In its centre stands a precarious-looking formation of smaller stones stacked up at least seven foot high,. It looks like a strong wind could topple it over, yet it’s been here for millennia. It’s really not as impressive as Stonehenge, even though that’s just down to the sheer size of it, but Harry’s jaw still drops open minimally, eyes growing wide. 

He stares at it for a long moment before turning his gaze to Louis. “Is it embarrassing to admit that I think it’s a bit creepy?” 

Louis pulls his brows together and looks at him, slightly dumbfounded. “We find a gutted body, but a couple of rocks creep you out?” 

“Well,” Harry admits sheepishly as they walk closer, “if you put it that way.” 

Puck is already circling the stones, nose still dragging over the ground, now so dirty he’s browner than he’s black, and Louis groans internally. He just cleaned the bathroom this morning, and hosing him down when it’s this flipping cold is not something Louis likes to do. Yes, sure, his dog should be fine, but Louis guesses he’s coddled him so much that his immune system might not be quite up to par, what with him sleeping in Louis’s bed and in front of the wood burner. 

“No goblins?” 

His head whips back to face Harry. “What?” 

Harry points at the stone circle. “No goblins around here? I thought that would be fitting. Since it’s little bit creepy.” 

_If only_ , Louis thinks to himself before shaking his head. “No goblins,” he says. “Goblins tend to stay underground, you know? That’s why they like the mines so much.”

“My mistake,” Harry grins. “So if not goblins, what else?” 

Fortunately, the ground has mostly dried and Louis finds a relatively flat and even spot near the stones for them to sit down and eat their lunch. Puck drops down only a few feet away and immediately rolls over onto his back, in case there’s a part of him that isn’t already covered in dried mud. He even has the audacity to look back at Louis with his tongue lolling out. 

“Stupid dog,” Louis mutters under his breath, folding his legs up and dropping the small backpack on the ground next to himself. Harry hesitates for a moment, but he’s aware that Louis wouldn’t let him live it down, so he plops down as well, albeit less gracefully than Louis. “What do you mean, what else?”

“Well, so far you’ve told me about the goblins in the mines, and the will-o-wisps and bog men out on the moors. Don’t tell me you’ve spent your entire childhood here and not come up with a good story about a stone circle.”

Louis bites his tongue and distracts himself for a minute by sorting through everything in the backpack, getting out some wrapped sandwiches and the biscuits and handing a bottle of water to Harry. He’s never really spoken about his home and all the stories and folklore surrounding it with anyone who hadn’t also grown up here. It feels a bit strange to share all of that with someone who doesn’t get the significance of it. That’s not Harry’s fault, and Louis isn’t ignorant enough to assume it is, but it’s not something he can ignore either. He wonders absentmindedly if he’s sharing too much; if it could end up backfiring. 

“No story,” he tells Harry after a moment’s consideration. “But Liam swears he saw a barghest out here once.” 

Harry stills with the bottle halfway to his lips. “What’s that?” 

“A hellhound,” Louis says, watching Harry’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Come on, you’ve read Harry Potter. The grim is just a variation of old folklore. But no matter what it’s called, it’s a big black dog with sharp teeth and red eyes. And when you see it, it means you’re going to die.” 

“But Liam –” 

“He was fine,” Louis replies, rolling his eyes. “A bit twitchy for a couple of weeks, but that was quite entertaining.” 

Harry has a sip of water. His right brow twitches. “I’m sure you had fun with that.” 

“I did.” He throws Harry a sandwich, which he just manages to catch. “But then Liam told on me and me Nan gave me a good telling off. Me ears were ringing for days.” 

“I’m sure you deserved it,” Harry tells him, unwrapping the cling foil. “But, I mean, it was probably just a dog, right? Would probably be easy to imagine something else in the right weather conditions, dark and foggy. Puck is black as well.” 

“He is,” Louis agrees superfluously and takes a piece of chicken off his sandwich, tossing it towards his dog, who’s got great reflexes when it comes to food. He snatches it up before Louis can do so much as blink. And sure, there are always dogs on the farms, all dark brown or black, but Louis doesn’t tell Harry that it had been summer and sunny, and the middle of the day. And that Ruth had seen it too. “Your mind can play all sorts of tricks on you.”

Harry hums quietly. “I think I believed everything Gemma told me when we were little, no matter how stupid. And I slept with the lights on for a week after watching _The Grudge_ for the first time. But you remember that.” 

Louis does remember that, not too fondly, because Harry refusing to switch off the lights had resulted in barely any sleep for the two of them. Watching a bad remake of a Japanese horror classic is probably not the same as – well. Louis doesn’t finish that thought. He clears his throat and picks at his sandwich, not feeling particularly hungry, so he flicks a few more pieces to Puck and tries to relish how warm the sun feels on his face. They’re not going to get many nice days from now on. 

“Did you miss it?” Harry’s voice pulls him out of his own head once again. 

Louis doesn’t follow. “Miss what?” 

Harry gestures around. “This place. When you left. Did you miss it a lot? I know you said you wanted to get away, but I just –” He trails off, tilts his head slightly as his eyes focus on Louis with penetrating curiosity that Louis feels a bit uncomfortable with. 

It’s just not that easy to answer that question without telling Harry about things Harry can’t know anything about. A lot of it is things he hasn’t even told Liam, or Karen and Geoff, or anyone else for that matter, because he can’t – he doesn’t know how to put into words how he’d felt being away from Rosedale Abbey and the moors; what being away had actually done to him. 

“I did,” Louis ends up saying. “It’s complicated. Manchester was pretty exciting, so I didn’t think much about home. But looking back…yeah. I guess I did.” Out of Harry’s view, he places his palm on the ground and digs his fingers in. It’s quiet, but it still throbs against his skin. It settles Louis like listening to someone’s steady heartbeat. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Louis snaps out of it. “Um…you’ve already been asking me lots of things.” 

Harry sighs. “You know what I mean. Something important.” 

Dread quickly spreads through Louis’ belly, gripping his ribs with icy fingers. “Sure.” He feels uneasy. “Ask away.” 

Crumbling the sandwich wrapper in his hands, Harry keeps kneading the foil to relieve the obvious tension that has suddenly settled over them. Harry looks down at his fingers for a beat, letting his gaze flicker up briefly before dropping it to his lap again. 

“Do you want to get back together?” Louis thinks his heart skips a beat, and not in a good way, but in a way that borders on painful. “I mean, I’m not asking, exactly,” Harry is quick to add. “Or maybe I am. I’m not sure. It’s just – I want you back in my life. And at the same time I know I don’t want you to just be my friend.” 

“Harry –” 

“No,” Harry cuts him off instantly, “please just let me say this, okay? I can’t be your friend. I don’t have it in me. And maybe this is a bit forward, and maybe my feelings aren’t exactly what they were, but…I spent a long time trying to get over you, before deciding I’d just pretend to everyone – myself included – that I was.” His hands are clenched so tightly around the wrapper his knuckles are protruding, turning the skin white. “I hooked up with a couple of people and I tried to like them, but I just didn’t. Nobody ever compared to you. And I know you’re it for me.” 

Louis can’t look at him. “How can you be so sure?” he asks, surprised he’s able to find his voice. 

“Aren’t you?” 

Swallowing thickly, Louis tosses the remains of his sandwich to the side, and Puck only needs a second to snatch it up with his tail wagging erratically. His heart is _throbbing_ , thumping against his ribcage so hard Louis feels it reverberating through his chest. He breathes in through his nose, smelling damp grass and soil and wet dog and doughy bread, and he lets the air out through his nose again, trying to stay calm. 

It’s just not fair. It’s not fair that Harry’s here and that he’s being so open and sincere and wanting exactly what Louis still can’t give. 

“That’s not the point,” he says. 

Harry narrows his eyes. “It’s what matters.” 

“It’s not,” Louis insists, and he knows he’s going to piss Harry off majorly because he can’t even explain it all. “You still live in London, and I’m here. Even years down the line, I will still be here. We can’t just ignore that. And feelings don’t matter, because you’ll hate me, you’ll fucking hate me if I keep stringing you along without giving you what you want and what you deserve, and I can’t have that! You’ll fucking hate me for it, and I can’t do that a second time.” 

“I wouldn’t hate you!” Harry exclaims, nostrils flaring. “I couldn’t. And maybe we don’t need to figure it out right now. We can work with whatever. London is a few hours away, sure, but I don’t have to be in London forever.” 

Louis shakes his head. Sensing his distress, his dirty, wonderful dog nudges Louis’ side before lying down and putting his head on Louis’ thigh. “There’s nothing here, Harry. You’ve seen the village. A lot of people have been leaving; even Liam is probably going to leave at some point. We can’t spend the next couple of years in a long-distance relationship when there’s no actual place we can share in the future. There’s nothing here for you.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything for a while after that, and Louis hopes that’s the end of it, but they’re both stubborn. And neither of them give up easily. 

“There’s you.” 

Louis can’t do this. “I can’t do this,” he ends up saying out loud and scrambles to his feet, accidentally whacking Puck on the nose. “This was a bad idea.” He nearly slips, but manages to keep his balance, and Louis knows, he knows already that he’s literally running away. But he simply can’t do this. Not now, not with everything going on and not with Harry. 

Puck is barking, already on his heels, and Harry is calling after him, but Louis doesn’t want to stop and he doesn’t want to turn around, because what the hell is he supposed to say to him? This isn’t how today was supposed to go and it’s just adding to all the shit’s that been going wrong. 

“Louis! Wait!” 

He should be glad. He should be so bloody grateful that Harry doesn’t hate his guts for breaking his heart and that he’s here, but – fucking hell, Louis broke his own heart as well and he didn’t get to cry on Niall’s shoulder and he didn’t get the chance to even try to get over Harry and he didn’t have anyone to talk to about anything he was feeling. He had to get on with it somehow, ignore how much it fucking hurt – and it still does, and it’ll still hurt when this whole thing goes tits up and Harry decides he’s better off with someone else. It’ll hurt again and it’ll hurt even more and Louis can’t fucking do this. 

“Lou, please!” 

He stops and whips around, but his pulse keeps racing ahead. “What do you want from me?” He yells it out over the bloody plateau. “What do you want me to say, or do?” 

Harry’s apparently still in it enough to have remembered to grab the backpack, but he stops, drops the pack to the ground and spreads his arms wide. “I just want you to give us a chance! Or to at least tell me no if you don’t want to. Stop giving me bullshit excuses –” 

“ _Bullshit_?” Louis cuts him off. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me? Am I meant to ignore what’s happened and that people are being bloody slaughtered and that the police have been breathing down my neck for weeks just because you’ve been here for a few days? This is my home and my family, and I can’t bloody think right now!” 

Harry visibly deflates at that and he looks like he wants to say something, but Louis doesn’t give him the chance. He feels like the floodgates have been opened and he just can’t keep it in anymore. 

“I know I acted like a bastard and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but that doesn’t give you the right to expect me to drop everything for you and –” 

“I don’t,” Harry objects, stepping closer. His eyes are red, which might just be down to the wind, but Louis kind of feels like he’d be crying if he weren’t feeling so fucking dried up and on edge. “I don’t expect you to do that. I’m sorry if –”

Louis groans out loud. “Don’t apologise. God! Can we all just stop apologising?” He rubs his hands over his face, cold palms over heated skin and tries to calm down again. He notices that Harry is stepping closer once more. If Louis were to stretch his arms out, he could touch him. 

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” 

Louis sighs and drops his arms to his sides. “I know. I just – with everything going on, I don’t have the headspace to make decisions like that. I can’t…I can’t even bloody think right now. That doesn’t mean I don’t –” 

He breaks off and part of him anticipates Harry’s arms wrapping around his shoulders, but he’s still surprised when it happens. It’s so familiar it makes him ache to his core, and it’s practically instinct to lean into Harry and encircle his waist in return, almost holding on for dear life – trying to convey what he can’t quite say out loud. There’s not been anyone since Harry and there won’t be anyone like him again in Louis’ life, and they don’t live in a bubble, but apparently Louis does now live in a fucking Brontë novel. 

Suddenly, Harry’s face is just there and all Louis can think is, _to hell with it all_ , before he kisses him. There’s too much fervour behind it from both sides and their teeth knock together almost painfully, Louis’ fingers scrambling for purchase and Harry’s hands tangling in his scarf. With too many layers in the way, it’s far from the effortlessness they’re both used to, but the sheer urgency of it makes Louis’ toes curl. Harry’s lips are chapped and his nose is cold when it brushes Louis’ cheek, but the inside of his mouth is warm and wet, tasting sweet and faintly like chicken. 

It’s different; the last five years palpable in the hesitation of Harry’s hands to travel anywhere but Louis’ shoulders and in the slight tremor that keeps a strong hold of Louis’ chest. But it’s also the same, because despite the years that have passed, Louis is still familiar with the low and barely-there grumble sounding from the back of Harry’s throat, and Harry still seems to know how pressure against Louis’ neck makes his knees turn into jelly.

Which isn’t the best thing when they’re on uneven ground. Louis’ knees don’t exactly buckle, but he sways slightly. They part with a gasp, wide eyes meeting, and Louis doesn’t have a chance to blink before he slips, dragging Harry down with him. Hitting the ground so hard it knocks all the air out of his lungs, with their limbs tangling and the world spinning for a moment, Louis lies on his back, staring at the sky, before a deep, hearty belly laugh rips out of him. 

Harry joins in only a second later and Louis doesn’t know how long they keeping laughing, but he knows he’s not laughed like this in a very long time. He laughs until there are tears running down the side of his face and he can barely breathe, lungs and belly and cheeks aching with it, the coldness of the ground starting to seep through his clothes. 

He laughs and forgets everything for a little while.

  

 

They don’t exactly hold hands on the way back to the village, but they walk close, knuckles brushing with almost every step, and Louis feels like a big weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. Knowing where Harry stands makes it a little easier, although Louis still doesn’t know how they’re supposed to make it work once Harry leaves for London. And there’s still so much Harry doesn’t know. Louis isn’t exactly ready to lay it all out for Harry, but he guesses he trusts him enough to consider the possibility somewhere down the road. It really is only a little step forward, but it feels monumental nevertheless. 

The sun is still out, Rosedale Abbey calm and quiet, the odd escaped chicken clucking on the side of the road but quickly scattering away when Puck comes too close. It’s almost idyllic again after the nightmare it’s been turned into in the last couple of weeks, and Louis really hopes this isn’t the calm before the storm. 

“I’ve got work to do tonight,” Harry tells him when they’re nearly at the Inn. There’s a red spot just below his lower lip, where Louis got him with his teeth. “But how about we grab breakfast at the café tomorrow?” 

“Sounds good,” Louis agrees without even debating it for a second. “I can come straight after our morning walk. Or maybe I can drop Puck off at home first, and then meet you.” 

“Yeah,” Harry replies, eyes flickering to the dog, who’s still giving him the cold shoulder. “I don’t think he likes me very much.” 

Louis snorts. “He likes attention, is the thing. And currently, you’re taking my attention away from him, so he’s not happy.” 

“Am I?” 

Louis lets his eyes drop to the road, feels a smile tugging at his lips. “You know you are.” Nudging Harry with his elbow, Louis adds, “just get him some Hobnobs, and he’ll be kissing your arse in no time.” 

“Noted,” Harry says as they come to a halt, the Inn’s car park spread out behind him. He turns his body towards Louis and smiles. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.” 

“I guess so,” Louis hums. He swallows around a lump and shuffles his feet. Why this feels like the end of a first date, he doesn’t know. But his heart beats just a little bit faster, making itself known, even if he tries his hardest to ignore it. 

Tentative fingertips caress along his jaw. Harry hesitates only for a moment, giving Louis an out he doesn’t intend to take, before leaning in and touching their lips together for a second time. It’s chaste, but lingering nonetheless, both of them unwilling to part. And Harry remains close, his breath hot when it brushes against Louis’ face. 

“I can’t wait.”

 

 

The house is cold and empty, air still heavy with dust in spite of Louis’ cleaning session in the morning. The sun filters through the windows, illuminating the dense atmosphere and particles dancing through it. Some of the light catches cobwebs Louis can’t reach and they sparkle like miniscule diamonds, like pearl necklaces draped around heavy chandeliers. 

He cleans Puck as best as he can with an old towel, because showering him now makes no sense at all when they’re going to be out for another walk in only a few hours. It’ll do for now, Louis thinks, walking into the kitchen to prepare himself a cuppa. He expects it, but he still can’t help feeling annoyed when he sees the crumbs surrounding the fridge, and only a moment later, he feels movement to his left. 

“Don’t fucking touch me.” 

Louis grabs the kettle more forcefully than he intends, gripping the handle tightly and hand trembling softly as he fills it with water. It’s enough for everything he’d pushed to the back of his mind to come crashing back down on him. His shoulder starts to tingle. He doesn’t want to do this now. He just wants another hour, maybe two, to just remember Harry’s delicate touch against his face, the smile tugging at his lips but even more evident in his eyes. 

Louis doesn’t want to be reminded of what’s happened, and is now happening to him. 

“I’m not an idiot, okay?” he says without turning around, keeping his eyes trained on the kitchen’s counter. “I’m not stupid. So don’t act like I am.” 

Breathing in deeply through his nose, he dumps a teabag in his cup and walks over to the fridge to get the milk, neck rigid with his refusal to acknowledge the very unwanted presence in his kitchen. Puck’s paws click on the tiles as he trots across the room to curl up on his dog bed in the corner. Usually, he refuses to even go near it, so Louis knows his dog can sense the tension and wants to keep away from it without leaving Louis on his own. 

“I’m not –” But Louis loses his train of thought almost instantly, mind going fuzzy all of a sudden and he squeezes his eyes shut against it, forces himself to keep breathing, to keep calm and swallow down the nausea that rises like bile in his throat. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he mutters and it’s almost drowned out by the kettle whistling. “I don’t know what you want me to do.” 

Louis flinches, shrinks away from the touch that’s ghosting along his spine, cold and weirdly clammy even through two layers of clothing. “I don’t,” he insist, pressing the words out through his teeth, resisting the urge to lash out, lose his composure. “And I need you to leave. Preferably now.” 

He nearly spills the water, and he does end up spilling some milk, and when his teabag is swimming in the beige liquid, Louis doesn’t even want tea anymore. What he wants is a break for another few hours, at least until the next day, and he wants his damn shoulder to stop feeling like it’s on fucking fire. 

Leaving the tea on the counter, Louis heads out of the kitchen with quick steps, his socks almost slipping on the floorboards of the hallway. He opens up the cabinet and starts digging through the top drawer, pushes the heavy phonebook to the side to retrieve his grandmother’s notebook for reasons he can’t really explain himself. He’s just hidden it there, but now it’s – Louis isn’t sure. But he takes it out and clutches it to his chest, and turns to where, at the end of the long hall, the staircase leads up to the first floor. He starts walking towards it. 

It’s hardly visible; the narrow door worked into the wooden panelling. Louis doesn’t use it at all these days, so when he turns the doorknob, it makes a bloodcurdling screech that sends a shiver down Louis’ spine. He’s met with a whirlwind of dust and a dark tunnel leading down into the cellar and he still doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. He hasn’t been down there in a long time, and he’s never had a particular urge to go, but something tells him he needs to now. 

It had been his grandmother’s workspace, for the lack of a better word, where she’d kept and stored things she’d deemed important – too important for Louis to know at the time. He’d hidden down there for about a week after coming back, leading up to the funeral, and then spent a few hours in the cellar here and there after and eventually, he’d just stopped. So he half expects the light not to work when he flicks the switch, but after some quiet buzzing and a few flickers, the single bulb halfway down the stone steps starts glowing, not really brightening it all up, but at least making everything a bit more visible. 

Louis presses the notebook closer to his heart and takes a deep breath. 

Then he begins the descent.

 

 

He stays down in the cellar all night and wakes up with chalk marks on his face, strangely well rested despite having slept only two hours at most, but his mouth still feels like something crawled into it and died horrendously. Pushing himself into an upright position, palms pressing against cold, damp stone, he looks up towards the single source of light dangling halfway up the staircase. Puck is standing at the top, quietly whining and pacing, never moving beyond the first step despite twitching with the desire to do so. 

Louis isn’t quite sure what happened, but he feels a bit woozy when he gets to his feet, swaying for a moment before his balance is entirely restored. Maybe some of the dried herbs on the shelves have something to do with it. Louis doesn’t even know what half of them are, and his grandmother hadn’t labelled them at all. 

“I’m up, I’m up,” he tries to placate his dog, brushing dust off his clothes and scrunching up his frozen nose. It doesn’t surprise him that his face is like ice, but it does surprise him that he doesn’t feel cold beyond that. Louis decides not to fixate on it and not to keep Puck waiting for much longer. Once he’s far enough up the stairs for light to shine on his watch, Louis is glad to see that it’s only a quarter to six, which leaves him enough time to have a quick shower before heading out.

When he gets to the top, Louis drops to his knees and digs his hands into warm, densely curled fur, allowing Puck to drag his cold nose over Louis’s face and lick his ears for a moment in reassurance that he’s absolutely fine. But his dog still follows him into the bathroom and lies down on the mat in front of the sink while Louis showers, ears pressed flat to his head, and licks water off the tiles afterwards. Louis doesn’t wrap up his shoulder again, feeling a bit calmer about the marks, even though he doesn’t look at them in the mirror and pulls on a long-sleeved shirt to wear beneath his jumper. Just in case. 

Outside, the sky is still dark but clear, the first rays of light teasing the hills on the horizon. The temperature has dropped again, it seems, and Louis wraps his scarf tighter around his neck and the lower half of his face until it comes up to his eyes. Limbs still mildly stiff, he stretches, grimacing at the crick in his back, before stuffing his gloved hands into the pockets of his Barbour jacket. 

The tracks in the mud are frozen now, like intricate carvings that make the ground uneven and irregular and solid like marble. Frost is dusting the moors, heather white and covering the plateau like clouds fallen from the sky. It looks ethereal, like a place suspended between two realities, and it reminds Louis of his grandmother telling him that in twilight, doors to other worlds would stand wide open, blurring the boundaries of what is tangible. 

And Louis can see it flickering in the distance, that omnipresent ball of light like a candle in the dark, following the route he takes across the plateau, a constant reminder that there are things at work that escape even _his_ imagination, things that are extraordinary even in a place like Rosedale Abbey. He’s come to realise that he needs to step up his game and stop relying on what he’s familiarised himself with over the past five years, because it’s not going to help him or anyone else, and it’s not going to make a difference. 

Stepping away from the path he usually walks on, it takes only a few minutes for Louis to find a suitable spot that’s relatively even and overlooks the surrounding hills and valleys. Puck’s bell mingles with the crunch of every step he takes on the stiff shrubs as he gathers reasonably sized rocks in his arms. He starts in the centre, begins laying out the memorised symbol and allows it to extend until it’s about five yards across. Louis observes it after gaining a bit of distance and checks that it’s displayed correctly before closing in on it again, going straight to the centre to put down the last rock. Just as the rock touches the ground, he feels it – a sting in his shoulder, a tremor beneath his feet, and looking up, he sees the light first grow, then twitch, and then suddenly disappear with a flash. 

Louis lets out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding in, his lungs practically groaning with relief. The sudden pain in his shoulder fades, but unfortunately not into nothing, leaving behind a prodding ache he feels down to his fingertips. He guesses if it all works out the way he hopes, if this buys him just enough time to figure out what he can do to stop and not just postpone what’s happening, it’s a small price he’s very willing to pay. 

“Let’s hope this keeps them at bay, huh?” he tells Puck, who’s sitting at his side and looking up with dark, curious eyes. Louis knows his dog has no clue what he says and means, but there really isn’t anyone else he can talk to with regards to this – there really isn’t anyone he’s ever been completely honest with. And even with Harry here, probably just waking up, maybe deciding to stay in bed for a little while longer to relish the warmth and soft sheets undoubtedly smelling of Karen’s lavender detergent, Louis doesn’t think that will ever change. 

Louis has been alone for a while now. But standing out here, surrounded by rocks and heather and nothing but empty moorland, he’s suddenly struck with how _lonely_ he is.

 

  

He drops a very displeased Puck off at the house before walking back to the village. It’s nearing eight o’clock and the sky is a rich blue, a rarity in November, the sun still behind the hills but its light already dipping the valley into a far brighter glow than it’s seen in recent weeks. There are nerves stirring in his belly, which seems silly since they’re only grabbing breakfast, nothing more, with no commitments attached to it. Louis won’t call it butterflies, because that’s not what it is, not exactly. And it’s not been like that with Harry anyway. Anything with Harry, even right at the beginning, had always felt much more substantial than flimsy butterflies. 

Absentmindedly, Louis pulls off his hat and runs his hands through his hair despite knowing that it’s not going to change the fact that he looks unkempt and like he just rolled out of bed. He’s not had it properly cut in far too long, but at least he’s squeezed in a shave, which unfortunately highlights the fact that his appearance is rather gaunt these days, everything tearing at his substance, not helped by a steady diet of toast and cereal. Louis has never been an insecure person, but this anxiety that refuses to let go of him seems to overshadow a lot. Most of all, he doesn’t want Harry’s pity, and he doesn’t want Harry to feel sorry for him, because regardless of what happens, Louis knows he’ll be all right. 

He knows he’ll pull through. He always has. 

Two things happen at once, just as he’s about to set foot onto the Inn’s car park. Harry walks out the front door, phone pressed to his ears and his forehead creased, as a car, a beat up Polo Louis doesn’t recognise, creeps around the corner. For reasons Louis can’t explain, he doesn’t step aside, but freezes in place. The car stops as well, in the middle of the road, and Louis can hear the rusty handbrake being pulled, the engine running even as the door flies open and a shockingly blonde head of hair pops out. 

“Lou!” 

Louis’ jaw drops. He can’t do anything but stare as Niall comes hurtling towards him, too quickly for Louis even to take him in before his old flatmate barrels into him, nearly making him lose his balance. Wiry but strong arms wrap around his shoulders and crush him to Niall’s chest, and Louis gets a whiff of sweet energy drink and the deodorant Niall had used back in Manchester. 

“You fucking arse!” gets yelled into his ear and yet Niall still pulls him closer, essentially cutting off his air supply, but Louis grabs the back of Niall’s shirt and squeezes back just as much, suddenly overwhelmed with how desperately he’s missed him. He hadn’t allowed himself to miss Harry, and he hadn’t allowed himself to think much about Niall either, because cutting one of them out of his life had effectively cut out the other as well. 

“You are such a fucking arse,” Niall says again and doesn’t let go. They’re still swaying slightly, stumbling a few steps to one side, and then the other, and Louis thinks his eyes are getting wet. But that might also be down to the fact that he can’t really breathe. “Fuck you, mate! Five fucking years, you shit.” 

“Sorry,” Louis manages to press out before Niall finally lets him go. 

His face is red. It’s red, and his jaw is a bit more defined, but his eyes are wet and still the same bright blue. He’s not changed a lot, and for that Louis is rather grateful. He’s also grateful that despite the swearing, Niall doesn’t look upset or angry with him 

“It’s great to see you,” he tells Niall, and he does feel a bit choked up. 

Niall wipes an erratic hand over his eyes and snuffles. He’s wearing only a threadbare t-shirt, but he doesn’t appear to notice the cold. “Bloody great to see you too, you dick. I’ve got half a mind to give you a lecture, but I’m just –” He breaks off and lets out a long breath, putting his hands on his narrow hips. 

“Harry said you might be coming up,” Louis remembers. “Made the photography thing work, then?” 

“Sure did,” Niall smiles, bashful and proud, and at the same time, loops an arm around Louis’ neck, pulling him in once more. “Really fucking missed you, you know?” 

“I’ve really fucking missed you too,” Louis says into Niall’s shoulder. 

The car is still running, still blocking both the road and the car park, and crunching gravel tells Louis that Harry has finished his call and is on his way over to them. But Niall keeps him pulled against his side, even when Harry walks up and comes to a stop right in front of them, raising both his brows. They used to be nearly inseparable at university and now, after five years, here they are again. 

“Might want to park your car, Niall,” Harry says, but Niall only shakes his head. 

“Give me a moment to soak this up, will ya? The _trio infernale_ reunited. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.” 

Louis chuckles. “Laying it on a bit thick there, Nialler.” 

Niall pinches his side and even through three layers, he manages to make it hurt. “Quiet, Tommo. You don’t get to complain, you unfaithful prick.” He looks between Louis and Harry quickly, narrowing his eyes and probably assessing the situation. Louis doesn’t know how much Harry and Niall talk, and he doesn’t know what Harry has told Niall, but he doesn’t doubt that Niall won’t take long to cotton on. “Now, what are you guys up to this early? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” 

“Never.” Louis shakes his head. “Just getting breakfast. You want to join?” 

“Hell yes,” Niall groans, unwinding his arm but not putting space between himself and Louis before he’s landed a hearty slap on Louis’ arse. “I got up five bloody hours ago, and you know how I feel about service station coffee.” 

Louis furrows his brows. “Did you drive up from London in the middle of the night?” 

Niall shrugs. “Yeah, I figured why not? Empty motorway, and I couldn’t sleep anyway, so I just decided to go early.” He turns to Harry. “Didn’t Nick tell you?” 

Louis has no idea who Nick is. 

“I just got off the phone with him,” Harry replies, turning on his heels and starting to walk towards Niall’s car. Louis is quite surprised it’s still running. Actually, he’s surprised it got Niall to Yorkshire at all, because it looks to be in worse condition than his Jeep. “He said you were coming up today or tomorrow, so I wasn’t expecting you just yet.” 

Niall grabs the frame of his front door and opens it a bit wider. “Got a bit overeager, didn’t I?” he grins and then winks. It makes Harry flush slightly, and Louis wonders briefly if he’s missed something before Niall turns to him again. “Let me park my old gal, okay? I’ll be with ya in a sec.” 

Then he slams the door shut. The handbrake groans again and the engine emits worrying sounds as Niall steers the car into one of the many empty parking spots in front of the Inn. 

“You okay?” Harry asks quietly after a beat and Louis nearly startles.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” He tries to plaster on a smile. “Bit taken by surprise, is all. A good surprise,” he adds on quickly when Harry’s gaze turns slightly worried. “It’s…nice to see he hasn’t changed much.” 

Harry’s lips twitch at that. He hums. “I guess you can always count on Niall to be the one constant.” There’s something wistful in his expression, but before Louis can really consider it, Niall locks the car and is back at their side. 

They head to the small coffee shop that’s entirely empty, but thankfully open, and Mrs. Lloyd leans over the counter to kiss his cheek when he rattles off their order of coffee and muffins, Niall and Harry finding a small table in the far left corner. 

“I’ll get you some scones as well, love,” she says, kicking the espresso machine into gear. “We’ve got some fresh ones still in the oven. Oh, and did James find you yesterday? He came in to say hello in the morning and said he was on his way to you.” 

“Oh, um, yes,” Louis nods, “he did.” 

“Such a relief that he’s taking care of things,” Mrs. Lloyd goes on, grabbing three cups and saucers while beans grind in the background. “Did you watch the news last night? The police put out a statement, telling everyone to be careful, to come forward if they have information.” She shakes her head to herself and adds in a lower voice, “I just hope they stop snooping around. Leave us all in peace.” 

Louis bites down on his lips. “I think that’s what we’re all hoping.” He can’t help but let his eyes flicker over to Harry and Niall, who are probably very much part of the issue here. Shrugging out of his jacket as he walks over to their table, Louis checks quickly that his shirt and jumper are still firmly in place and nothing is peeking out from underneath. He only feels the strain in his legs once he’s sat down.

“So,” Niall says after a beat, raising his brows and folding his arms on the white tabletop, “this is where you grew up, eh? Looks…interesting.”

Louis snorts. “You’ve not seen half of it.” 

“Bet Harry has had a tour,” Niall says with a wink and manages to look endearing while leering at the same time. “Or was that tour restricted to your bedroom?” 

Niall doesn’t mean to make it awkward. He probably expects his joke to go off and get a good laugh, but Louis only feels his stomach drop and his face fall slightly. Glancing at Harry, he looks similarly uncomfortable. They both manage to school their expressions, but Niall is also more perceptive than many people give him credit for, so he instantly catches on to the fact that he’s breached a taboo subject. 

“Or not,” Niall rectifies his own words, blue eyes flickering between Louis and Harry. “Sorry. Just – I thought you’d have straightened things out by now.” 

“We’re getting there,” is what Harry says at the same time as Louis mutters, “it’s complicated.” Their eyes meet, and that underlying tension persists, because they all know how to read between the lines. 

So this is how it feels when someone invades their bubble, Louis thinks, and he doesn’t dare let his thoughts venture farther than that. It’s just Niall, another part of him is telling himself. Niall, who Louis has known longer than Harry, who’s been there from the start and who was there for Harry after the end, but even his presence throws Louis off and out of balance. He’s thankful Mrs. Lloyd chooses that moment to bring them their coffees and two plates with muffins, scones and a generous serving of jam. 

Louis pulls his mug closer, dips a spoon into it and stirs, cocoa turning the milk foam brown. He’d felt good yesterday, lips tingling with the memory of Harry’s pressed to them, but his mood has steadily deteriorated again, very quickly at that, and Louis is not – he’s just not ready to share whatever progress he and Harry have made with anyone. It feels too fragile. And apparently, in spite of all the talking they’re doing, they still don’t appear to be quite on the same page. 

“Sorry,” Niall says again for no discernable reason and grabs a chocolate muffin, tearing off a piece to stuff into his mouth. While still chewing, he continues, “but you’re okay, aren’t you? Like, no hard feelings and all. That’s out of the way, right? Because I might cry if you’ve not made up.” 

“We’ve made up,” Louis tells him, still looking at his coffee and not up. 

Niall sighs. “Thank God. Because I mean, I was honestly a bit worried it would all blow up a bit with the whole, you know, Harry saying that his ex was from this place and then Nick telling Harry to shag information out of you and –” 

Louis’ head snaps up. Niall keeps talking obliviously, apparently, because his lips are still moving, but Louis can’t hear a thing. From one moment to the next, there’s blood rushing in his ears. He looks at Harry, who is staring back at him with widened eyes, complexion pale, and that – that more than Niall’s words drives the message home. 

“You said you were filling in for a colleague,” he speaks up, effectively interrupting Niall’s stream of words and nearly making him drop his muffin. A bit of it crumbles off and falls onto the table. Harry’s not moving a muscle. “You said you only remembered I lived here when you were already on your way.” 

“Oh crap,” Niall utters, but Louis pays him no mind. 

He shoots up, knocks against the table so hard that his practically untouched coffee sloshes over the edge of the mug. Louis already has his arms in the sleeves of his jacket when Harry unfreezes. 

“Lou, it’s not –” 

“I swear to God, Harry,” Louis cuts him off, cursing under his breath when his zip gets caught in fabric. “If you say it’s not like that, I’ll fucking punch you.” 

The legs of Harry’s chair scrape over the floor. Niall is just staring at them, muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “But it’s not,” Harry tries again, but Louis – fuck. Louis has been so fucking stupid.

“No? So you didn’t lie about your colleague being ill? You didn’t lie about just randomly remembering I was from here when your boss had already told you to go? You didn’t lie about not wanting to use me to embellish your fucking article?” 

Harry looks stricken, but he remains quiet, and he doesn’t deny it, and Louis really wants to go on, really wants to keep digging in. He’s been feeling so guilty for everything, and so terrible, and he’s been so grateful because he thought Harry was genuinely…no, Louis just wants to get out. He wants to get out, and away, because Harry fucking _lied_. 

“I’m not using you.” Harry finally finds his voice and as he steps towards him, Louis takes another step towards the door. “I didn’t – I didn’t lie about anything else.” 

The joyless, dry laugh that curls out of Louis’ mouth actually hurts his throat. “About anything else, sure.” His head is beginning to hurt. “Just – leave me the hell alone.” He quickly turns to Niall and says, “it was nice to see you, Nialler, but I need to leave now,” and Louis intends to do just that, to ignore Harry and get out and back to his house and his dog, but Harry grabs his shoulder to stop him. 

Pain shoots through Louis like lightning and he barely manages to suppress the gasp that’s punched out of his stomach. He pushes back against Harry as hard as he can and puts more distance between them.

“Don’t touch me,” Louis presses out through his teeth, reaching behind himself for the doorknob. “Just write your bloody article, and get the fuck away from here.” 

He slams the door shut and makes a mental note to apologise to Mrs. Lloyd some other day, hopes absentmindedly that she’ll understand, before breaking into a light jog, not slowing down until he’s made sure that Harry isn’t following him, which he probably has Niall to thank for. Thoughts are spinning and colliding painfully in his head and Louis doesn’t want any of them to stick, at least not until he’s behind closed doors. 

Maybe he’s overreacting. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But then Harry’s words echo in his mind, and he remembers how specific Harry had been, like he fucking came up with some story to tell Louis instead of simply withholding the truth. Like he had a jolly good few hours driving up to Yorkshire and coming up with one explanation after the other for Louis to gobble up like an idiot. And Louis had been sceptical, but he’d still – he’d gobbled it up like an idiot. He’d just believed that a series of strange coincidences had led Harry to Rosedale Abbey and that he’d forgiven Louis, just like that, without any hidden agenda. 

By the time he steps onto his property a few short minutes later, his throat and eyes are burning from the cold and suppressing the urge to scream out a litany of curses at the top of his lungs. His Jeep is standing there, still covered in mud, still not running, frost still clinging to the corners of its windows, and his house is a dark presence even in the sunshine now flooding the valley. It’s like the light doesn’t reach it; like it absorbs anything bright that touches it. 

Christ, Louis really needs to get a fucking hold of himself. 

He can hear Puck’s paws on the floorboards before he’s even turned his key in the lock and Louis lets him scurry around his legs as he shuts the door again, palms flat against the old, smooth wood, heaving out a sigh. Leaning his forehead against the door for a moment, Louis fumbles to get the key in again and twists it to the side. It clicks once, twice, and if Louis could turn the lock one more time to make a point he would. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out and turns around, slides down against the door until his bum hits the floor. Puck is on him a split second later, trying to curl up in his lap because he thinks he’s still puppy-sized, but Louis lets him. He wraps his arms around his dog’s neck and pulls him closer, nose wet and cold against his neck. Puck echoes his sigh, then whines quietly until Louis gives in and scratches his ears. 

Louis bites his lip. He’s not going to fucking cry because of this bullshit; he’s just not. It’s his own goddamn fault anyway for being so gullible, for giving in to Harry despite his better judgment, for clinging to the memory of a relationship that probably didn’t have a future then and certainly has no future now. Because Louis is…who he is, and Harry has London and his career and likely lots of friends, and a life he doesn’t need ruined by rekindling a romance that had turned sour long ago.

“You didn’t like him anyway, did you?” he tells Puck and presses his nose into black fur. “Should’ve listened to you. You probably smelled his fake arse a mile away.” 

Puck huffs like he agrees with him and licks his ear, a warm and heavy weight against him. He tries not to think about how Harry had felt against him just the day before and how genuine he’d sounded the entire time he’d spoken about – 

Louis is not going to cry, but he guesses he can allow himself to wallow in self-pity for a few hours before getting on with it. He can allow himself to be upset and angry and disappointed, and he can hope that Harry leaves sooner rather than later. Louis can hope that soon, it’ll just be him and his dumb, loyal dog again, living in this dark and dusty place, back to the way it’s supposed to be.

 

 

***

 

_to be continued..._

 

 

 


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Above him, the sky is clear but grey and speckled with a thousand suns that shine no light down on him. Louis can’t feel its warmth and inside his chest rises the desire to burrow into the earth he’s standing on to get away from it, so he does the closest thing to it and lowers his body down clumsily, folding legs that are unfamiliar and stiff. He sits and lets his fingers brush over the pillowy shrubs and feels his heart starting to beat faster. But that’s wrong, Louis realises. It’s not starting to beat faster._
> 
> _It’s starting to beat._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [running up that hill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zxqZYe90--c) by kate bush. also way too much radiohead.
> 
> as always, thanks to geeb for being the bestest. you rock.
> 
> any questions or need to vent, you can always hit me up on [tumblr](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the few original characters that float around in the background. This is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities with reality are unintended and incidental.
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: swearing, as usual. also near-death experience. but nothing graphic.

***

 

CHAPTER V.

 

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Louis shakes his head curtly. “Nope.” He hands Liam one of his fancy-looking screwdrivers before putting his hands back into the pockets of his jacket. The sky is overcast, thick white clouds hiding the sun and sky even though it’s midday, temperatures moving towards the negative as predicted. 

Liam stills, bent over the open hood of Louis’ Jeep, heavy brows furrowed and a frown pulling at his features. “Are you sure?” His breath produces white wisps, contrasting the black knitted jumper he’s wearing, sleeves rolled up and hands covered in motor oil. 

“Very,” Louis replies, holding Liam’s gaze steadily but nearly sighing with relief when Liam decides to refocus on whatever the hell is wrong with his car. “Spoke to James earlier, by the way.” 

“Yeah? What’d he say?” 

Louis lifts his shoulders. “Not much. They don’t exactly have anything to go on except for the bodies and the supposed cause of death. Apparently that inspector wanted to ask more questions, but James has him looking for a non-existent connection between the victims.” 

Liam flexes his arms, pulls at something. He grits his teeth. A small bead of sweat drops from his hairline, trickles down the side of his face, and curls around his jaw. “Can he do anything else?” 

“They’re telling people to not go hiking in the area, but that’s about it.” It’s not like the police can enforce it in any way. But Louis seriously doubts people will be foolish enough to do it. 

“Do you think that if the hikers stay away, it might hit us?” 

That’s something Louis has been agonising over for weeks now, and why he’s been so desperate for answers. It’s one thing if accidents happen; he can’t be responsible for everyone and he can’t make sure that tourists stay in their lane all the time. But this village, his family – they _are_ his responsibility and it’s his job to ensure they’re safe. 

“I’ll make sure it won’t,” he tells Liam resolutely, and Liam glances up at him. His eyes mirror the confidence Louis has learned to put on well, only Liam really means it, really does trust Louis to know what he’s doing. All of them do. Louis isn’t so sure he isn’t disappointing them; putting them all at risk because he hasn’t got a fucking clue what to do yet. He’s got ideas, sure, but ideas aren’t solutions and Louis still doesn’t know what’s going on and – 

Well. But maybe he does. Maybe he does exactly know, and that’s the problem. 

The sound of gravel crunching makes him whip his head around, and Louis didn’t exactly expect it, but he isn’t surprised, either, to see Niall walking up the narrow path leading to his house. Niall waves, shows his teeth when he smiles wide, and Louis pulls his hands out of his pockets again, taking a few steps ahead to meet him. He gets pulled into a hug instantly and gives Niall’s back a few claps. 

“Hey,” Niall says in greeting and proceeds to grin sheepishly. “Sorry, Mrs. Payne told me where to find you. I understand if you don’t wanna see me.” 

Louis has to swallow down a lump. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I want to see you. I didn’t mean to run out on you as well, but –” 

“No, it’s fine,” Niall cuts him off, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I get it. But I, like…I also want to say sorry. I kind of fucked shit up, didn’t I?” 

“I think you’re probably the only person who doesn’t need to apologise, Nialler,” Louis tells him. “I’m glad you said what you did.” 

Niall pulls a face. At least he’s wearing a jacket today, black wool making his complexion look even paler and his eyes even bluer. “Yeah but – I don’t want you two to fight when you’ve just made up.” 

“We haven’t made up,” Louis says. 

“Harry says you did.” 

“Well, Harry lied, so he doesn’t get to decide that.” It stings to see Niall’s face fall the way it does. Louis wants to apologise – again – for upsetting him, but he’s also still pissed at Harry and not in the mood to even talk about him. He only remembers that Liam’s right there when his friend clears his throat. “Oh, crap. Sorry. Liam, Niall. Niall, this is my friend Liam.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Liam says, thankfully ignoring the conversation that’s just happened. “I’d shake your hand, but –” He holds up his greasy hands in apology. 

“You too, mate,” Niall nods at him and then turns his attention back on Louis. “I can get out of your hair if you’re busy.”

“Nah.” Louis waves him off. “I’m not much use anyway, I’m afraid. You want a cuppa?” He turns around before Niall can utter his assent, knowing that Liam doesn’t mind if he takes this conversation elsewhere. Liam knows that Louis is…private about certain things, and it’s never been an issue, and Louis would rather talk with Niall without a third pair of ears. Puck is somewhere on the property, chasing rodents, but he’s fine on his own, never venturing farther than the plot’s borders. 

Louis is slightly apprehensive about letting Niall into his home. He knows what it looks like to an outsider; the cold and dusty rooms where most furniture is covered with sheets and cobwebs are dangling from the ceiling like chandeliers. But he knows that Niall isn’t one to judge, so he opens the heavy front door and holds it for his former roommate, whose eyes grow wide when he steps inside. 

Niall whistles. “Nice place.” 

“Thanks,” Louis replies curtly before leading the way into the fortunately cobweb- and biscuit crumb-free kitchen, where he busies himself with filling the kettle and setting out two cups, teabags, and milk. He turns around and leans his lower back against the counter as Niall takes a seat at the table. 

“So,” Niall says, dragging out the vowel, “this is where you grew up, huh?” 

“Yup.” 

His lips twitch. “Lots of space, I guess.” 

It makes Louis laugh unexpectedly and he nods with a smile. “Yeah. _Lots_ of space.” 

They wait in silence for the water to boil, Louis stacking a couple of dishes in the sink to clean later and Niall looking curiously around the room, eyes flickering from one corner to the next. Louis’ shoulder still stings a bit, every other minute, especially when he’s not distracted and he can’t ignore it anymore, so he is trying to get used to it. It feels like it’s spreading, the pain covering larger parts of his arm and back by what seems like the hour. 

He grits his teeth to suppress the persisting ache, fills the cups with hot water, and stirs in lots of sugar and milk for Niall. And when he sits down opposite Niall, he feels strangely drained and out of breath, like holding onto his sanity is taking an actual physical toll on his body. 

“So,” Louis says, cradling the cup between his hands. 

“So,” Niall echoes, and tilts his head slightly to the side, unabashedly observing and assessing Louis. “You look like hell,” he drops after a moment, not beating around the bush. 

“I’ve not slept particularly well,” Louis hedges, giving Niall at least some version of the truth. 

“Because of Harry?” Niall asks. It’s strangely familiar, him getting involved in their relationship and almost taking part in it and to some extent, that’s probably true. When Louis doesn’t respond, Niall adds, “Harry feels like shit, too. I talked to him. And he didn’t lie to you. Not about the important things.” 

“How can I know that?” 

“Because you know Harry,” Niall is quick to shoot back. “You know he wouldn’t.” 

Louis breathes through the pain in his arm, the ache in his chest. “Five years is a long time,” he says, going back to his old shtick, because apparently he’d been right in the first place. Five years _is_ a long time, and people change more than Louis had anticipated. 

Niall seems to disagree. “Oh, bullshit!” he exclaims with a frown that draws a deep line between his brows. “Five years is fucking nothing. You know Harry, and he knows you, and you both know that all of this is unnecessary bullshit.” 

Louis brings his left hand up to his lips, intent on chewing on his thumb to settle the anxiety fluttering in his belly, but he scolds himself internally and instead drops it in his lap again, wringing his fingers together. “It’s not unnecessary,” he disagrees weakly, because he’s too stubborn for his own good. 

He knows that Niall rolls his eyes in response, even if he doesn’t look up to see it. “It _so_ is. You fucked up and now he’s fucked up as well, but neither of you did it to be malicious, so like – talk it over, maybe? I love you guys, and if you don’t get it together, I might stop believing in true love.” 

He wants to think Niall is exaggerating a little, being overdramatic like Louis’ been this past day, but he has an inkling that Niall really means it, and as much as it pains him to see Niall crushed, the situation’s just not as simple as Niall makes it sound. Louis stays quiet, leans over his cup even more, and allows the steam to lightly coat his face.

 

 

Niall stays for another hour after they move on to lighter topics – mostly Niall talking about his latest trips, some stories about ex-girlfriends or his nephew. Liam only pops his head in once to let Louis know he’s going home, and when Niall leaves the house in the afternoon, it’s dipped in silence once again. 

It’s a relief, even though Louis doesn’t exactly mind company, but it’s mildly suffocating these days. With everyone but his dog gone, Louis can drop the pretences and mutter a curse under his breath as his fingers squeeze around his itching shoulder. He leaves Puck to snore in front of the wood burner and wanders out into the hallway with no purpose other than to move and distract himself, find something to do or read; perhaps go down into the cellar again. 

He doesn’t get very far. 

The backdoor opens with a drawn-out creak and Louis stills, turns his head to the left just as a cold gust of wind hits his face. Quiet footsteps sound over the floorboards, leaving a trail of nearly black soil. He feels the air go thick and heavy, sizzle with something he’s become far too familiar with and even though Louis can’t anticipate what is going to happen within the next three seconds, he knows something will, making his shoulders tense. 

An icy, solid body, like stone, presses to his the next moment, wiry arms encircling his frame and clutching him tight and Louis feels lips, even colder, touch to his own, sucking all air out of his body with one single breath. It’s not a kiss, and Louis doesn’t know what it is, but his body goes rigid with it; his vision swims and his chest starts to tingle and ache. He barely realises that from one beat to the next, claws pierce into his skin and something starts to trickle down his throat; thick like honey, laced with electricity, burning away and filling his insides. 

For a second, Louis wonders if this is what drowning feels like – weightless, frozen, heart on fire. 

Thinks it, and is released, but the closeness remains. Louis’ eyelids flutter, vision sharpening again and gaze focusing on the face in front of him and the eyes that are dark and endless like the tunnels leading into the mines. Unnaturally sharp features, and teeth that somehow don’t seem as pointy as they did when Louis was a child. Although he still feels their echo against his mouth. 

His hand is seized, cold fingers around his wrist like a vice, claws digging in but still not drawing blood. Louis’ feet move on their own accord and he follows, leaving the hallway and then the house behind him as he steps out into the wild garden. He’s not wearing a jacket, and he should feel cold, but that warm, syrupy feeling is still inside his chest and spreading. 

He is guided across the lawn and towards the back of the property where the terrain starts to ascend. The silence that has gripped his surroundings lately is replaced by a steady murmur that increases the closer they get to the hills. There’s pressure on his arm, but there is an even stronger pull gripping his sternum, like an invisible thread tied around his breastbone. 

Suddenly, Louis stumbles and as he straightens his body again, his eyes fall onto the house he’s about to leave behind, and before he’s aware he’s doing so, he digs his heels into the ground and stops. The fingers tighten on his hand, but Louis – he refuses to budge. His head and body still feel stunted, but he sees his home – his _home_ – and he can’t move another inch. His dog is in there, and there’s Liam and Karen and Geoff down in the village, and all the others. Niall, too. And Harry. Always Harry. 

His arm falls back to his side and as Louis turns back around, he almost expects to be struck across the face, but nothing comes. Nothing of the sort happens. From one moment to the next, he’s simply alone again. And Louis should go back into the house, get his head sorted and regain his senses, but he’s just so tired all of a sudden. He’s so tired. Just so, so tired. 

Louis’ legs give out and he barely notices falling to the cold, damp ground, grass tickling his face. He blinks up at the sky, once, twice – then he falls asleep.

 

 

_He is out in the moors. The moss is soft and warm beneath his bare feet; ground pulsing like it’s got its own heartbeat. He can’t hear the scream echoing across the plateau, but he can feel it in his chest, hurting his throat, making him flinch. Trying to determine where it’s coming from, Louis takes a step, and then another. His body feels heavy and foreign, not entirely his own, and he struggles to move forward, but he keeps walking, toes digging into soil and limbs weighing him down._

_Above him, the sky is clear but grey and speckled with a thousand suns that shine no light down on him. Louis can’t feel its warmth and inside his chest rises the desire to burrow into the earth he’s standing on to get away from it, so he does the closest thing to it and lowers his body down clumsily, folding legs that are unfamiliar and stiff. He sits and lets his fingers brush over the pillowy shrubs and feels his heart starting to beat faster. But that’s wrong, Louis realises. It’s not starting to beat faster._

_It’s starting to beat._

_There’s still a voice, almost shrieking, loud and shrill, but when Louis tries to get up again, he can’t. His body doesn’t seem to work anymore. When he looks down at his arms, his outlines are blurred, but the heather is sharp and vibrant, such a rich purple it’s making Louis’ eyes water and his cheeks wet._

_Only when Louis parts his lips does he realise that he’s the one who’s screaming._

 

  

“Louis!” 

Someone is jostling him, gripping his shoulder, waking him up. Louis stirs, his limbs heavy like lead. His wet clothes slide against his frozen skin and – what? He blinks his eyes open. The sky above him is a deep, rich blue, and only one sun is shining down on him. 

Liam appears in his line of view. “Louis!” he calls out again, voice laced with a panic Louis doesn’t quite understand. Liam’s hands touch his shoulders, his chest, his neck, his face as Louis slowly comes back to himself. “Fuck, are you okay?” 

Why wouldn’t he be okay? 

Louis places his flat palms to the ground and pushes himself up into a sitting position, vision swimming for a moment, black spots dancing in front of his eyes and obscuring Liam’s face for a few seconds. With a heavy sigh, Louis brings his hand up to wipe cold perspiration off his face and is startled when he finds it caked with mud, like he’d – like he’d dug it into the ground. And when he holds still for a beat, he notices that his throat hurts like… 

Like he’d been screaming. 

He looks down at his body, ignoring Liam’s concerned eyes, and sees that his jeans are soaked, clinging to his skin, and dirty like he went fucking hiking instead of just taking a short nap. His arms and chest are tingling.

“Lou,” Liam tries again, gripping Louis’ upper arm so hard it almost hurts, “are you all right?” 

Louis frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, his head spinning slightly and he struggles holding on to a thought. “I just – I must’ve passed out for a bit after Niall left. I haven’t been sleeping well.” 

Liam’s eyes go wide. “Louis, that was _yesterday_ ,” he says, and Louis’ jaw falls open. “I tried to call you all morning and when you didn’t answer your phone I came here. I looked through the entire house before I thought to check the garden. Have you been out here all night?” 

Louis wants to answer, but he doesn’t actually know. 

“Shit,” Liam goes on, “how did you not fucking freeze?” 

Louis doesn’t know that either, but suddenly, he feels cold. A shiver courses through his entire body, then, from head to toe, and his hands have a bluish tinge to them. It would probably be best to warm up a little. As if reading his mind, Liam takes his arms and pulls him to his feet. Louis’ head spins and his knees buckle, but Liam is quick to stabilise him. 

“Let’s get you in the shower,” Liam says and moves them towards the backdoor. Puck is waiting on the threshold, wagging with his tail and his ears pressed flat to his black, curly coat, and he isn’t one to bark a lot, but he barks now; a desperate, yapping sound that nearly breaks Louis’ heart. Louis guesses the door fell shut behind him, Puck unable to follow him outside and waiting all night for him to come back. 

“Sorry,” he apologises to his dog, extending his hand to let him sniff and lick, but Louis is beginning to really feel that he’s practically frozen to his core, and he wants nothing more than a hot shower and a cuppa. 

Liam helps him up the stairs, and Louis feels pathetic for it, but he’s too wrung out to care much. Only when Liam steps into the bathroom with him does discomfort rise up his throat, because – because he doesn’t want Liam to see.

“I’ll be okay,” he tells his friend, his hand gripping the frame of the door, and Louis tries to appear steadier in his stance. 

“Are you sure?” Liam still looks almost sick with worry, forehead deeply creased. The knees of his jeans are muddy from where he’d knelt on the ground next to Louis. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. How about you go ahead and make us a cuppa, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen once I’m finished.” 

Liam shrugs. “If you say so. Give me a shout if you need help. though, all right?” 

“Sure thing, Payno,” Louis tells him, stretching his lips into as much of a smile as he can manage, and watches as Liam turns his back on Louis, disappearing down the hallway and down the stairs. 

Louis exhales and shuts the door with a quiet click, leans back against it and tries to calm his heart, which is beating heavy with anxiety and exertion. He’s missing almost an entire day, having lain unconscious for hours after…something had been breathed down his throat. It terrifies him to think what’s now filling his body, what is slowly but steadily gaining momentum and control over his senses. He has a guess, yet he doesn’t want to assume, and he doesn’t want any of this – hadn’t wanted it back then and doesn’t want it now. It’s why he left in the first place, before he’d realised it was impossible to leave this place behind. 

Without further ado, Louis grabs the hems of his jumper and undershirt and pulls them both over his head before stepping up in front of the mirror. It doesn’t startle him as much as it should, because this time, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise that the marks have grown, spread across his chest and over to his other arm, thicker right above his heart. They drop over his ribs, trickle down his narrow and wiry frame until they curl around his hips. Louis doesn’t need to turn around to know that his back is covered as well. 

With a sigh, and without the energy to linger on it, he opens his jeans and pushes them down his clammy thighs, bunches up all his dirty clothes and throws them in the hamper in the corner of the room. Stepping into the shower stall, Louis turns the water on full force and tips his head back into the lukewarm stream, which instantly starts to cascade down his back. Even not fully warmed up, it comes as a shock to his icy skin, prompting Louis to grit his teeth. 

Maybe everything is just a figment of his far-too-vivid imagination, or maybe they are early signs of a very rare and strange case of dementia. Maybe he’s just going insane. Louis thinks he’d actually prefer that option to what he knows to be true. 

Mechanically, Louis gets some persistent knots and dried mud out of his hair and quickly scrubs down his body, which is still littered with goosebumps. He should probably stay under the spray for a while longer to fully warm up again, but he guesses some warm clothes and a hot cup of tea will do the trick as well. 

He wanders into his bedroom, which he hasn’t tidied up in far too long, and even though he’s not slept in his bed, it still looks a mess, sheets tangled and halfway on the floor, two cups and a plate on his nightstand. But that isn’t something Louis has the mind to worry about now, so he pulls on clean underwear, two pairs of socks, the only pair of jeans not covered in mud, and a heavy, woollen jumper that Karen had knitted for him a few years ago. Louis gives his damp hair a quick rub before letting the towel drop to the floor. 

Downstairs in the kitchen, Puck is lying in front of the range, head bedded on his paws and dark eyes following Louis’ every step, making sure he doesn’t leave again. Liam hands him some steaming tea and joins him at the table. 

“Has this happened before?” 

“No,” Louis replies curtly. 

“Are you sure?” Liam asks. 

“Yes, Liam,” Louis snaps, not keen on talking about something he can’t really explain either. “I’m pretty sure I’ve not woken up in me fucking garden before.”

“Sorry. It’s just – you’re worrying me,” he says and Louis feels an instant pang of guilt. “The only time I’ve seen you look this bad was when you came back from Manchester. You’ve lost weight, and you’re pale, and you look like you’ve not slept properly in weeks.” 

Louis can’t help himself and says, “Christ, Liam, you really know how to compliment a guy.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know!” Louis sighs irritably. “I know, okay? What do you want me to do? I’m not choosing this, am I? I can’t help it. Things are just really fucked up right now.” 

“If you need any help –” 

“You can’t help!” he cuts Liam off immediately and he’s sorry, he is, he doesn’t mean to be short-tempered and snap, but it’s just tiring. It’s so bloody tiring and Louis wishes he could just stop having to explain himself constantly. “I have to deal with this alone, you know that. It’s to do with me, and it’s my problem to solve and I’m trying! It’s fucking exhausting that everyone wants to breathe down my neck.” 

Liam looks stricken. “I don’t…Lou, you know I don’t mean it like that. I don’t want to be invasive and –” 

“I know,” Louis interrupts him again. “I know you don’t, but I just need some fucking space, okay? It’s not that I’m not grateful, you know, but I just – I just need some space to think.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” 

The tea is so hot it scalds Louis’ tongue, but he keeps drinking it anyway. “I don’t want to be a dick and throw you out,” he says after he’s put his cup down again. 

“I don’t mind,” Liam insists. His own tea is untouched, and he’s still in his jacket. “I’m happy to give you space, Louis. I just – I get worried. We all do. And if there is anything at all that I can do to make things easier for you, I’m happy to do that. If it’s space you need, and some time to yourself, then that’s not a problem.” 

“I’m sorry,” Louis tells Liam, and watches him get up and walk around the table. Liam leans down, wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders, and hugs him close. Louis buries his face against Liam’s neck, smells the familiar laundry detergent and cologne he’s used for years, and tries not to feel like a very bad friend. 

“Don’t apologise,” Liam mumbles into his hair. “But if you do need help, please remember to ask for it, okay?” 

He nods and Liam lets go, holding Louis’ gaze for another beat before he turns around and leaves the kitchen. His steps echo down the hallway and the sound of the front door closing echoes for a whole lot longer. 

Louis turns to his dog. “Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m horrible, okay? I’m ungrateful and mean and a horrible person.” 

Puck doesn’t respond, of course, but his ears perk up and he tilts his head almost questioningly. Louis buries his face in his hands and tries to breathe, doesn’t attempt to process everything that’s happened, but he should probably learn to compartmentalise. He needs to stay on top of things. But, Louis guesses, what he needs right now is another dose of hopefully dreamless sleep. A short nap to refuel. 

Louis gulps down more of his tea, then gets up with heavy limbs, Puck jumping to his feet almost simultaneously. He leaves the kitchen, knowing that his dog will follow him up the stairs and into his bedroom. Not bothering with changing the sheets, Louis just kicks them off the bed, drags a pillow close, and pats the mattress to signal Puck to jump up and lie down next to him. He cuddles his dog close, allows him to lick his face for a few seconds before he buries it in his black fur, and falls asleep.

 

 

The next time Louis wakes up, it’s dark outside and the windowpanes of his bedroom have turned into waterfalls. Heavy drops are pounding against the glass in quick succession, almost drowning out the sound of Puck snoring into his ear, and he allows himself another few minutes, languidly stretching the limbs that are beginning to feel like his own again. Louis feels better rested, only a few remnants of fatigue now clinging to him, and even though he’s most likely fucked up his sleeping pattern entirely, at least he doesn’t think he’s going to topple over anymore. 

Louis rolls over onto his back. The wood panelling on the ceiling draws long shadows and he follows the lines with his eyes for another moment before he pushes his body into an upright position. A yawn curls past his lips and he presses his hand to his mouth before looking to his left and poking a finger between Puck’s ribs. His dog twitches and huffs, shakes his head so quickly his ears flap against his own nose. Sneezing, and looking entirely displeased that Louis woke him up, he takes his time stretching his body before jumping off the bed and shaking himself from head to tail. 

“I know, I know,” Louis tells him, “how dare I interrupt your nap? Not like you do much other than sleep.” 

Louis wriggles his socked toes, then swings his leg over the edge of his bed. The sheets are in dire need of a wash, so he strips the mattress and pillows quickly, throws the bare duvet onto the bed, and bundles everything up in his arms. 

“Come on,” he says to Puck. “Let’s get these in the wash and some dinner in your belly, huh?” 

As if understanding him, Puck leaves the room instantly and a second later, Louis can hear him trot down the stairs. He follows at a slower pace and makes a detour to the utility room, throwing everything into the washing machine. He makes a mental note to buy more washing powder as he empties the last of it into the small compartment, but if it keeps raining like this, Louis is worried the road out of the valley might once again get flooded, cutting them off from the surrounding towns. 

It’s usually not an issue. They all learned to buy in bulk a long time ago. But considering the special circumstances – Louis isn’t so sure. 

He finds his phone in the kitchen and when he looks at the weather forecast, he groans at the promise of a solid week of rain. Louis is used to it, yes, but he isn’t a fan of practically swimming across the plateau every morning and evening, and he’s missed the walk twice now. Regardless of the weather, Louis has to get out there tonight for at least an hour, and he’s already dreading it. 

At least bad weather means there won’t be any fucking tourists. 

Louis washes the last three days’ worth of dishes while Puck drags his bowl through the entire kitchen, gobbling down his dinner, bumping into Louis twice. But they’re not joined by a third guest, which Louis is rather grateful for, because he doubts he could deal with that right now. 

He dips some toast into jam while the minutes tick by audibly, the grandfather clock in the small sitting room down the hall sounding through the entire ground floor. Wondering whether he should head upstairs to check on the roof, or the brittle window frames on the second floor, his thoughts are interrupted by a few quick but solid knocks on the front door, prompting Louis to drop his toast. Puck snatches it up as soon as it hits the floor. 

Louis doubts it’s Liam – maybe it’s Niall who’s come back to have a chat. He leaves the kitchen and flicks on the hallway light before heading to the door, opening it without any further ado. But as soon as he does so, Louis regrets it, because standing there isn’t Liam, or Niall, or anyone else Louis wouldn’t mind seeing, but Harry, soaked from head to toe like he’d stepped into the shower fully dressed. 

Louis freezes, and his teeth clank together so hard it hurts. 

“What do you want?” he grits out after a beat, hand gripping the door so tightly his knuckles turn white with tension. 

Harry doesn’t respond immediately. Louis can see his chest rise and fall even through his jumper and coat, like he ran here through the rain as fast as he could and is now out of breath, and he looks absolutely pitiful, with hair that’s escaped his ponytail sticking to his cheeks and forehead and his eyes almost as red as his face is from the cold. His nostrils flare when he takes a rattling breath. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says eventually, still standing in the rain, voice as rough as sandpaper and really looking the part as well. 

But Louis doesn’t want an apology. He wants not to be lied to or made to look like a fool in the first place. He wants not to feel stupid and used. If Louis were a better man, he’d accept Harry’s apology and perhaps invite him to come inside, or at least send him on his way with a raincoat or umbrella. But Louis isn’t. He’s angry and disappointed. 

“You lied,” he bites out, giving voice to the hurt that’s curling in his chest. “You made up some bullshit story that I fucking swallowed, because I didn’t think you’d –” Louis cuts himself off, balls his fist. Rain is hitting his porch so hard some splatters even hit his face, yet Harry doesn’t move a single inch. “Why did you lie?” Part of Louis doesn’t even want to know. An even bigger part wants to be an even bigger arse and slam the door shut in Harry’s breathtakingly beautiful fucking face. 

Harry lifts his shoulder in half a shrug, looking pained. “I panicked,” he answers and casts his eyes down. “Christ, I don’t even know, I just – it slipped out. I didn’t mean to. You just…” He lets out a shaky breath and his gaze nearly knocks all air out of Louis’ lungs when he lifts it again. “You still make me nervous, you have no idea how much. And I wish I had a good explanation, but I don’t. I fucked up. I know that.” Wiping a shaky hand over his wet face, Harry gives him a watery smile. “Can I come in?” 

Regardless of everything, Louis feels his hackles rise and his defences go up. He feels too unsettled to deal with Harry in the confines of his home. It’s a part of him he’s not willing to bare in light of recent events. 

“No.” He shakes his head stiffly; fully aware he’s being childish and petty. “I want you to go.” 

Harry’s face falls visibly, the corners of his mouth pulling down, and Louis can see his Adam’s apple bob. “You don’t mean that.” 

“I do.” 

“You don’t,” Harry insists and shakes his head, raindrops continuously pearling from his lashes. He takes a hesitant step forward and Louis takes one step back into the house. “Lou, come on. Let’s just – let’s talk about this.” 

Louis doesn’t want to talk anymore. He’s so fucking tired of all the talking that never seems to get them anywhere. And if it does, it also takes them ten steps back just moments later. “All we’ve done is fucking talk,” he says tiredly, struggling not to slump against the hallway wall. “I’m done.” 

“Louis, please,” Harry tries again, “I know I screwed up, but –” 

“And so did I,” Louis interrupts him before he can finish. “Let’s just call it even.” 

“Call it even?” Harry calls out, eyes gone wide. “Louis, you broke my heart –” 

“And you fucking broke mine! You came here to screw information out of me, and you lied about it, so you don’t get to do this anymore!” Harry freezes. He looks like Louis just struck him across the face. And Louis knows he probably isn’t the one who has the right to explode all over the other, but he can’t keep it in anymore. It’s making him sick. 

“Do you think I left and just stopped being in fucking love with you? I didn’t even get to think about that! You had Niall, you got to keep him while I had to pretend I didn’t even miss you,” he spits out, throat aching from how hard he’s trying not to scream. “And I did, every fucking day and I was still in love with you every fucking day and then you came back, even more perfect than before while I’m –” Louis draws a ragged breath, hand trembling even as his fingers still cling to the door. “I’m so fucking tired of it all. Because you’ll always make me feel guilty and yet I still fucking love you, but I can’t trust you, okay? I can’t fucking trust you.” 

“Lou...” Harry extends an arm, but Louis shrinks back, wraps his own around his upper body and feels his heart beat erratically and painfully, making it hard to breathe or focus on anything else. His arms and chest are on bloody fire, tingling and itching and although he wants nothing more than for Harry to hug him close, the desire to shut himself away is even stronger. 

A low but persistent growl echoes over to them and when Louis looks over his shoulder, he sees Puck at the end of the hallway, hackles raised and ears flat, snarling at Harry, sensing Louis’ discomfort. Louis doesn’t tell him to stop. 

“You should go,” he tells Harry, voice barely above a whisper, barely audible over the thundering rain that’s just not letting up. “I just – I need you to go.” 

“Lou, please –” 

“Go,” Louis repeats and keeps his eyes on his socks, so he doesn’t have to look Harry in the eye. It’s not fair to either of them. But neither is dragging this out when Louis knows they’d probably only end up hurting each other again with more guilt and more lies. “Please.” 

Harry lingers for another moment, then Louis hears him sigh before he retreats, heading back out into the rain. It tears at Louis, and he has half a mind to call after him, but he bites down on his lip, puts his weight against the door and pushes it shut. The sound echoes through his cold, dark, and empty house, and the dusty chandelier dangling from the ceiling shivers with it. 

Louis presses his hand to his forehead, massaging away an approaching headache as Puck whines quietly and makes his way over. He nudges his nose against Louis’ hip. 

Louis sighs. “I don’t deserve him.” He swallows thickly, but he doubts he’s going to get rid of that lump in his throat any time soon. Part of him wants to fucking choke on it. “That’s what it boils down to. I’m just using all this as an excuse. That makes me a bad person, doesn’t it?” 

Puck huffs, and Louis guesses he agrees with him on that.

“We still need to go for a walk,” he says, and brushes unwanted wetness from his eyes. “I don’t like this damn rain any more than you,” and Louis dreads it; dreads it even more now because every fucking walk he has to go on is yet another reminder why he and Harry should just stop bloody trying. 

He wonders if it makes sense to wait a little while longer in hopes that the downpour might at least lessen in its intensity. Although with the luck he’s had recently, it’s probably more likely that it will increase, make the river go over the edges and flood the –

Louis stills on his way back to the kitchen, his mind stuck on this last thought. The river, he thinks, pulsing like a vein, filled with more life from all the water it’s been fed, gurgling over slippery stones and breaching the road leading back to the Inn. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

Nearly slipping on the smooth floorboards, Louis spins around and hurtles back to the front door. He’s in his sodding shoes only a fraction of a second later, doesn’t bother to tie them because there’s no fucking time for that, and throws open the door. Rain hits his face like icy little pinpricks, Puck barking behind him and about to follow, so Louis shouts at him to stay and is down the stairs and out into the dark a beat later. 

He slides more than he runs, his property littered with fallen leaves that make it nearly impossible to gain proper footing, but Louis thinks he’d crawl if he had to. 

“Harry!” 

Louis can’t see him, but he can’t bloody see anything in this weather, surroundings obscured by a dense and ever-moving curtain, and he hopes Harry isn’t too far ahead yet. He hopes that he’s chasing after him for no reason, that he’s panicking without second thought and that Harry is already back at the Inn, sitting in front of the fireplace, drying and warming up. 

Rounding a corner, the loosened-up road gives way and Louis stumbles, unable to catch himself. He hits the ground hard with his side, making his head spin and confusing his orientation when a deep puddle engulfs him momentarily. Inhaling a disgustingly large amount of muddy water, Louis splutters and pulls his legs under himself, tiny pebbles digging into his knees as he attempts to scramble to his feet. His hands burn like he’s scraped them bloody and open, but Louis couldn’t give less of a fuck. 

He pushes up, blinded for a second by pain shooting down his legs, before he shakes his head and breaks into a sprint. Blinking against the rain and gritting his teeth against the pain, Louis tries to see despite his swimming vision, tries to make out the river, which isn’t far ahead. Uttering one curse after the other, he presses on even when he loses one of his shoes to another muddy puddle.

“Harry!” Louis calls out again, his voice going hoarse with it, yet he feels like he barely breaches the thundering of this apocalyptic downpour. He hopes he’s wrong, he prays to whatever gods there are that he is wrong. 

A handful of treacherously warm lights glimmer in the distance and Louis knows the bridge is close, and the river even closer, can hear it roar with the weight of the water it carries, so loud that he can practically feel the way it crawls over rough stones like a poisonous snake. His shoulder burns, his chest throbs, even as he runs, even as he thinks he sees Harry’s figure moving cautiously by the bridge as dark water gurgles and snaps for his feet. 

And with building panic, Louis sees it; sees its slick, black body move as one with the river, climbing over its edge and towards – 

“Harry, stop!” Louis is getting closer; close enough that he can see Harry slip and stumble. “Harry, no! Don’t –” 

It seizes his ankle and pulls. Harry hits the stones, and Louis hears his yelp, whichdies almost instantly as he gets dragged into the water. Louis’ heart falls and he can’t tell whether he’s screaming or choking. He loses his other shoe somewhere towards the edge of the river and he doesn’t hesitate for a second before diving into the ice cold water. It sloshes over his head and pulls at his body, and Louis stretches out his arms blindly. 

Plunging deeper, his numb fingers find something that feels like the collar of Harry’s coat, so Louis grips it tight and pulls. He meets resistance, and there is nothing to push down against, his lungs already screaming in silent agony. The current tears at him, bubbling and sloshing around his slowly stiffening body, but Louis can’t let go. And he can’t – he can’t see them, but he feels glinting eyes watching him, unmoving, as if…as if it’s waiting for him to do something. 

But what, Louis has no clue. 

Kicking his legs out, Louis uses the momentum to descend further, feeling for Harry’s shoulders and when he grips them, he wants to scream with relief. He holds on; Louis doesn’t know what to do, but he just holds on, wraps his arms around Harry’s chest as he feels his senses beginning to cloud. Something…it’s anchoring them to the spot, not moving and not letting go and Louis doesn’t know what to do. 

He can fucking see it down there, still gripping Harry’s foot, watching them with milky eyes, its coat resembling moss and algae. It has drowned four people already and it’s not getting a fifth. It’s not getting Harry. 

_Let him go_ , he pleads in his head, because if he opens his mouth now, water will fill his lungs and weigh him down until he’s drowned. _Let him go._

Louis tries to pull at Harry’s heavy body again and again, and he’s freezing, yet he still feels like he’s on fire and he feels – he feels the marks on his skin, every single curved line like it’s being burned into his flesh at this moment, pulsing and sizzling and screeching in his head in an unfamiliar voice. For a moment, Louis truly believes he’s drowning, as a strange sensation hits the back of his throat and it’s foreign, but familiar. 

Sticky and syrupy, like honey. 

Only a second later, Louis breaches the surface. He swallows water and coughs it back up as he greedily gasps for air, kicking his legs to keep himself and Harry afloat. His limbs screaming from exertion, Louis whips his head from side to side, looking for something to hold onto, something he can use to pull Harry out of the water because he’s – Louis doesn’t know if he’s breathing. 

“Shit,” he screams and throws his left arm out, fingers slipping but somehow still managing to grip the sharp edge of a rock. It stings, most likely cuts into Louis’ palm, but he hardly notices it. Gritting his teeth once more and squeezing his eyes shut, Louis tightens the muscles in his arm and begins to haul himself and Harry out of the water towards what he hopes is solid ground. He kicks his legs out while he’s at it, just in case it’s still down there, lurking beneath their feet and waiting to strike a second time. 

Louis has no clue how he does it, no ounce of strength possibly left in his body, but from one moment to the next, with one final haul, he finds himself shivering on the muddy riverbank, arms and legs giving out and causing him to topple forward onto Harry’s lifeless body. His weight hits Harry’s belly and sternum, and the shock of it makes Harry seize up. He coughs and splutters and throws up what is hopefully all the water he’d swallowed onto the already wet ground. 

It’s still raining, Louis realises absentmindedly, watching numbly as Harry sinks back down, white as a sheet, but twitching and groaning and breathing and there’s…there’s a time to consider what the fuck just happened, but it’s not right now, because Louis is so exhausted he could cry. He probably _is_ crying already. 

Slumping forward, he beds his heavy head on Harry’s steadily rising and falling chest. His heart is beating quietly, but it is beating. 

Louis closes his eyes and listens.

 

 

***

 

_to be continued..._

 

 


	6. VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It sounds weird, but,” and Harry has to break off to cough some more, fortunately not too badly this time. “But I swear something grabbed my ankle.” 
> 
> Louis’ blood runs even colder. “Branches,” he says curtly, and probably too quickly to avoid suspicion, and Harry looks at him like he can’t quite follow. “There are quite a few growing out between the stones. You must’ve tripped over one of them. Not the shoes after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack to [war and peace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S27BuZ7oCrU&list=PL3B8A55E52659794B) by jan kaczmarek. not sure why.
> 
> go say thank you to geeb for being the best beta, even though thinks ground floors should be called first floors. it's not her fault. she's american.
> 
> any questions or need to vent, you can always hit me up on [tumblr](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the few original characters that float around in the background. This is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities with reality are unintended and incidental.
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: swearing, as usual.

***

 

CHAPTER VI.

 

 

Harry stays entirely out of it and Louis can’t say what the hell possesses him, but somehow he manages to half-drag, half-carry Harry back to the house, and even up the stairs and into his bedroom, while Puck whines and yips, tail between his legs like he can smell the fucking thing that nearly drowned them. 

The bed is still bare, sheets in the machine, but there’s no time for that. Louis finds a couple of quilts and throws in the linen closet down the hallway and tosses them onto the mattress next to Harry. He yanks off his shoes and jeans and wrestles Harry out of his soaked-through coat and shirt, working quickly to bundle him up in warm and dry blankets, as Louis’ own teeth begin to clatter. It sinks in slowly, this entire ordeal, and Louis starts to feel it, his body aching from head to toe with every additional muscle he has to move. 

There’s a fireplace in nearly every bedroom, including Louis’, but he never uses it, so he has to go down the stairs again to get a few logs, filling the kettle with water while he’s at it, then trudges back to the first floor, pulling his body up the stairs by the railing. He quickly gets a fire going and finds, in one of his drawers, an electric blanket to throw over Harry as well. Harry’s skin is still cold, but there’s a bit of colour back in his face and his eyelids are twitching, so Louis hopes that the worst he’ll get out of this is a nasty cold. 

When Louis straightens his back, he realises that he’s still in his wet clothes and shaking like a leaf, his socks caked with mud because his shoes are somewhere out in the rain. Louis strips unceremoniously, feeling stiff and clammy, and leaves everything on the floor. He looks at his hands, one big gash – fortunately, not very deep – slicing across his left palm, his knuckles raw and bruised. Blood trickles down his index and middle finger and Louis lifts his left hand, cradles it to his chest, desperate to shield it away before heading to the bathroom. 

He cleans his hands in the sink until the water running down the drain is clear and finds a couple of plasters to deal with the worst of it before towelling himself dry, his frigid skin overly sensitive. Back in his room, Louis finds sweats and socks and a chunky-knit turtleneck that also covers his wrists so none of the marks are visible. He’s ready to collapse, but the kettle is whistling downstairs, and so he grudgingly makes another painful trip into the kitchen to fill the teapot. 

Setting the steaming pot and two cups down on his already overflowing bedside table, he sits down on the edge of the mattress, Puck instantly curling up on top of his feet as Louis curls his fingers into the duvet. 

He can’t stop quivering. 

 

 

Louis doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He means to stay awake and alert and watch Harry, make sure he keeps breathing, make sure he stays _alive_ , but of course Louis nods off at one point, awkwardly and uncomfortably slumping forward, half supported by his own knees and the mountain of blankets Harry is buried under. It’s just a shallow slumber that doesn’t make him feel even marginally rested when he feels movement and is jostled awake by the rustling of sheets and a soft but pained groan. 

He nearly smacks himself in the face getting his limbs back in order and his body in an upright position, blinking against the dim, flittering light that comes from the glimmering fireplace in the corner of his bedroom. With bated breath – and still without a clue about what to say to him – Louis watches Harry’s features scrunch up and his eyelids twitch as he slowly regains consciousness, trying to ignore the fact that Louis still feels like he’s been put through a grinder. 

Harry’s eyes blink open, but he squeezes them shut only a second later, letting out a long and pained groan, undoubtedly feeling the repercussions of his head hitting the ground quite hard, from what it looked like. Louis scoots up the bed when Harry’s unfocused gaze flutters around the room and his shoulders lift in an attempt to get out of the cocoon of blankets and throws Louis has wrapped him in. 

“Harry.” Louis places a hand on his right shoulder and that, perhaps combined with his voice, is enough for Harry to still and his still-cloudy eyes to land on Louis. “Hey.”

Harry’s lips part in an attempt to reply, but the only sound that comes out is a raspy cough that goes on long enough for tears to trickle down his pale but blotchy cheeks. At least he isn’t blue anymore. Louis leans over to the nightstand and grabs one of the cups of tea. He’s not filled it to the brim, so it’s easier to bring it to Harry’s mouth without spilling once he’s stopped shaking. 

“Have some tea,” Louis tells him superfluously only to bridge the pressuring silence, hoping that wetting his throat will lessen the itch Harry is undoubtedly feeling from swallowing so much water and throwing it back up again. 

Harry manages to get some tea down, but he can’t help but spill parts of it as his throat visibly constricts again. Louis puts the cup to the side and uses the cuff of his sweatshirt to wipe Harry’s face, to push his still-damp curls back, ignoring the way his heart stings with the intimacy of it. He averts his eyes to a wet spot on the bare mattress because he can feel Harry’s on him, and busies himself with adjusting the blankets around Harry’s body. 

“You’re at my house, and you shouldn’t move too much,” Louis eventually says and clears his throat, racking his brain, which is heavy with fatigue, to come up with an explanation for what has happened, should Harry ask. “You hit your head pretty hard.” 

“Yeah, I,” Harry croaks, wriggling one hand out of his blanket cocoon to gingerly touch his temple, “I don’t – what happened?” 

Louis steels himself and schools his features. “You slipped. I chased after you, because – well. The river’s pretty narrow and when it rains as much as it has recently and today, it tends to flood the road and the bridge and when it’s dark…” He trails off, praying to God it’s not written all over his face how much he’s bending the truth. It’s for Harry’s own good. God knows how his bruised head would take what actually happened. “Anyway. You slipped, knocked yourself out. Fortunately, I’d just caught up, so…” 

Harry blinks confusedly, eyes glancing around, probably taking in the room, and Louis is momentarily grateful that his eighteen-year-old self had ripped the posters off the walls in an angry fit. He watches as Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “You…carried me here?” he asks, still sounding like his throat is coated with sawdust. 

Louis shrugs. “To be fair, I mostly dragged you. You’re heavier than you look. But I guess the wet clothes added some weight.” 

He doesn’t exactly expect Harry to laugh at that, but it doesn’t even brighten the mood slightly. Harry’s still wearing a puzzled and solemn expression, not that he can be blamed considering he nearly drowned – but Harry doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know how close they both came to dying tonight. Louis suppresses a shiver, finds a loose thread at the hem of his sweatshirt and starts fiddling with it to suppress his nerves. 

“Lou, I –” Harry starts. 

“Surprised you didn’t fall earlier, to be honest, with them boots,” Louis goes on mindlessly before Harry can ask more questions. “Don’t have a good grip, do they, and not exactly weather appropriate.” 

“Louis –” 

“To be honest, I don’t know what possessed you to walk here in this weather or how Karen even let you leave without a proper raincoat, because umbrellas don’t work out here, you know? It gets pretty windy, especially this time of year, close to winter and –” 

“Louis!” A clammy hand closes around his wrist, making Louis stop short. He glances up, his gaze meeting Harry’s. “Thank you.” 

His touch burns, and Louis swallows down what feels like his heart beating on his tongue. “It was nothing,” he breathes out, paying no mind to the goosebumps breaking out all over his body. It – it feels like an electric shock, Harry touching him, even though it shouldn’t be a big deal, even though it’s just his fingers encircling Louis’ arm. “Seriously. Not like – like you would’ve drowned.” 

“Still,” Harry insists, sounding so sincere that Louis feels like a right bastard for lying to him; for sending him off in the first place, actually, and not thinking ahead in his own petulant anger. Louis doesn’t want to think about what might have happened had he not been on time. “It’s weird,” Harry suddenly continues, brows drawing together, “I just…don’t remember slipping?” 

“Probably normal,” Louis responds stiffly, and he hopes that’s it, that Harry is going to leave it at that, that he doesn’t – 

“It sounds weird, but,” and Harry has to break off to cough some more, fortunately not too badly this time. “But I swear something grabbed my ankle.” 

Louis’ blood runs even colder. “Branches,” he says curtly, and probably too quickly to avoid suspicion, and Harry looks at him like he can’t quite follow. “There are quite a few growing out between the stones. You must’ve tripped over one of them. Not the shoes after all.” 

Harry doesn’t believe him. Louis can tell that Harry does’t believe him. To what extent remains unknown, but Louis knows Harry well enough to realise that he’s not buying this, yet Louis refuses to back down, holds his gaze steadily. Harry doesn’t say anything, and for that Louis is grateful, but he also knows that this might come back to bite him in the arse. 

Louis lets out an inaudible breath. “If you don’t feel too sick, you should try and sleep a little,” he tells Harry and draws his hand out of his grip, getting to his feet again. His legs feel like jelly. Everything hurts. “I don’t think you’re concussed, but let me know if you start to feel sick. I’ll wash your clothes and – I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” 

He isn’t proud of practically fleeing the room, but there’s nothing Louis can do to reverse it. He feels Harry’s eyes burn into the back of his head all the way down into the utility room, where his sheets are still damp inside the washing machine. Louis bungs them into the dryer unceremoniously, shakes out Harry’s jeans and socks and jumper, which are muddy and wet, and throws them into the emptied machine. He slams the door shut and switches it on, and it seems like this consumes the last ounce of energy in his body. 

His knees buckle and he crumbles to the tiled floor like a wet bag of sand, hardly notices that he’s gone down until he finds himself staring up at the ceiling. It feels like his body is burning, like there are flames licking over his skin and penetrating it, setting his veins alight until they sizzle. His numb toes start twitching, and Louis can’t stop it, can’t move even though he wants to, especially when the back door opens with a gust of cold, damp wind. 

Wet and dirty footsteps sound through the room until they come to a halt right next to Louis, and he bites down on the curse that threatens to roll past his lips. Spindly, bare legs fold up, sharp claws scratching Louis’ skin when his hair is brushed away from his forehead, and although the hand coming to rest on his face is hard and icy like stone – it’s comforting. It shouldn’t be, but it is, calming Louis’ erratic pulse and…and sucking the pain out of his aching, throbbing body. 

It feels comforting, and reassuring, and entirely too inevitable. 

It takes another hour of lying on the floor before Louis regains control over his body and when he does, his first stop is the kitchen, where Puck is out like a light, sleeping in front of the range that’s still pleasantly warm to the touch. Louis refills the kettle before grabbing the tin of biscuits and leaving them out on the table, knowing full well it’ll be empty by morning – if it’s not early morning already. He’s got no idea how much time has passed since he sprinted after Harry. 

But he’s not really interested in finding out, either. Louis thinks it’ll be easier to kill the time until Harry is back on his feet if he doesn’t, maybe instead spending a few hours reading and going through his grandmother’s notes. And when the sun comes up, he can send Harry on his way and go on the walk that is long overdue. 

It’s still pouring rain out, and the cellar feels and smells damp when he climbs down the stairs to gather a few things to take up into one of the sitting rooms, the dim light combined with the wetness almost making it seem like it’s underwater. Back on the ground floor, Louis calls for Puck, who, after a couple of displeased huffs, comes trotting out of the kitchen to join him in the small, tucked-away sitting room where bookshelves line the walls and heavy curtains shield away the epic downpour that’s still going on outside. 

Louis settles down on an old ottoman that’s covered with a dusty sheet, and Puck jumps onto it without being prompted to do so. He knows that Louis doesn’t care. He scratches his dog’s back with his slowly defrosting toes before settling back against the armrest and opening the heavy tome he’s brought with him. The words blur together almost instantly, Louis’ concentration shot completely, probably muddled by all the damn water he accidentally swallowed. But he’s nothing if not stubborn, so Louis knits his brows together and squints at the page in light that’s probably too weak to be good for his eyes. 

He really shouldn’t be stupid enough to fall asleep a second time, Louis thinks, even as he feels his eyelids becoming heavy. He should have some coffee or tea, or even a glass of cold water. Thinks it, and is out a moment later, breathing in the dusty sheet.

 

 

This time, he doesn’t wake up to quiet rustling. It’s a loud bang, quickly followed by a yelp that has him shooting up so quickly he nearly throws himself off the ottoman. Louis blinks rapidly, book sliding to the floor with a dull thump, and looks at Puck, who’s already jumping to the floor, grumbling and hackles raised. 

Louis scrambles to his feet, uncoordinated and half asleep, and stumbles out into the hallway and towards the kitchen. “I swear to God,” he mumbles to himself and rubs his sore eyes, “if you dropped the biscuit jar on purpose I’ll fucking lose me –” 

He nearly bites off his tongue snapping his mouth shut, because it’s Harry standing in the kitchen, one of the blankets wrapped around his body and face as white as a sheet. Shards are lying at his feet, and Louis makes sure to push Puck back out into the hall before stepping into the kitchen. Harry’s eyes are wide, directed towards the fridge, and Louis has a very bad feeling about this. 

He clears his throat. “Harry, are you –” 

“There was someone on your fridge,” Harry cuts him off instantly, voice full of disbelief but not wavering. He turns his head to look at Louis, bewilderment evident in his features. 

Louis thinks his heart drops down to his ankles. “What?” 

“There was a person sitting on top of your fridge,” Harry clarifies, but it doesn’t seem like he can quite believe it himself. And Louis – Louis isn’t sure what to say to that. Not even…not even Liam’s ever seen – “I just wanted to get more tea,” he says, which explains the broken cup on the floor, “and I figured you were sleeping, so I found the kitchen, and I flipped the switch and…” Harry pauses, gaze wandering back to the spot that was probably occupied just moments ago. “There was a guy sitting on your fridge.” 

“A guy,” Louis can’t help but echo numbly as his heart painfully climbs back to its rightful spot in his chest where it continues to beat erratically. “On my fridge.” 

“He had – he had tattoos, all over his body,” Harry goes on, unperturbed, forehead drawing deep lines that are emphasised by the shadows thrown across his face. “And he was sitting there, looking at me, and –” 

“Harry,” Louis tries and he knows he’s shaking internally, but he can’t show it. He just can’t show it. “There’s nobody here.” 

“But…” 

Louis steps forward, careful to avoid the shards, and sends a silent prayer to the heavens that he’ll fucking stay gone before Louis really gets into a pickle. “There’s nobody here,” he repeats more forcefully, hoping to convince Harry that he imagined it all. It shouldn’t be too hard, really. But something tells him that it’s going to be. “There’s just me, you, and Puck.”

Harry shakes his head resolutely. “I swear there was someone there.” He bites his lips hard enough for them to lose all colour. “I’m not going insane.”

“I’m not saying you are,” Louis tells him with a façade of fake calmness, “but it’s the middle of the night, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. We’re alone in this house, Harry. There is nobody else here.” He reaches for Harry’s hand that is clutching the blanket to his chest. “Let’s go back to bed.” 

He slowly but steadily starts leading Harry around the remains of the cup, feels his sceptical gaze but ignores it in favour of leading him out of the kitchen and towards the staircase. Harry complies without putting up a fight, follows Louis back to the first floor, while Puck sneaks around their legs and trots over to the rug at the foot of Louis’ bed, not keen to be left alone either when things are happening tonight that are out of the ordinary even in this place. 

“How’re you feeling? Still not sick? Warm enough?” Louis asks Harry in quick succession, trying to distract Harry, but perhaps mostly trying to distract himself. A quick glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand tells him that it’s almost five in the morning, meaning he must’ve dozed off for a handful of hours, at least. It’s nearly time to take Puck for a walk and look after things, even if Louis really doesn’t want to go out when it’s still chucking it down. 

“I’m fine,” Harry says in reply and allows himself to be pushed down onto the bed, still holding on to the blanket and not stopping Louis from throwing a couple more on top of him. 

“I’ll get the fire going again,” he rambles on. “It’s an old house, and it tends to be cold. I’ve not gotten round to replacing the windows and getting some double-glass ones in, so it’s a bit draughty. I mean, it’s not like this place has central heating and –” 

“Louis.” 

His head snaps up from where he’d been pointlessly focusing on his own feet. “What?” 

Harry sits up. The throws slide off his chest and reveal bare skin Louis hadn’t had the mind to focus on earlier, so desperate to get Harry warmed up again that he’d paid no attention to what he was uncovering by peeling away layers of soaked-through clothing. Because, without anything to cover him, it’s that much more obvious that Harry’s changed, has gotten broader and more mature, a far cry from the toned but still scrawny boy Louis had called his boyfriend half a decade ago. There’s the old ink, the sparrows and that ridiculous butterfly Louis had teased him about but secretly loved so much, the ship and the star and those fading _Temper Trap_ lyrics. 

And there are the new tattoos Louis knew would be there; new tattoos that make his fingers and tongue itch. A rose, a heart, a ridiculous mermaid, and a pair of laurels sitting low on his hips and brushing around the bones in a way that prompts a sudden curl of desire to zing down Louis’ spine. With heat starting to crawl into his cheeks, Louis lifts his gaze to finally meet Harry’s, and his voice seeps over Louis like honey. 

“Come here.” 

Louis lets himself be pulled onto the bed, the mattress giving way under his weight and making the two of them sway slightly. Harry’s thumb digs into where Louis’ pulse is hammering away and he seems so focused suddenly, sharp enough to cut deep into Louis substance and make him bleed. 

“Harry,” he starts, but Harry just shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry I lied,” he says, and Louis doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand – yet. “I really am,” Harry goes on, voice barely above a whisper. He touches a hand to Louis’ face, nearly making him flinch, palm fitting perfectly against the curve of Louis’ jaw, thumb brushing the delicate skin by his ear and fingers tickling along his hairline. “So please, don’t lie to me either.” 

Louis doesn’t – “I’m not –” 

Harry keeps a gentle but firm hold of his jaw, his eyes piercing but not cruel and the panic Louis should probably feel by now doesn’t come. The urge to deny everything doesn’t come either. “I know how you look when you’re lying,” he says, and presses his lips to Louis’. 

It’s a far cry from the kiss they’d shared out on the moors that had practically been fit to feature in some BBC period drama. For a moment, Louis feels too stunned to move or react in any way whatsoever, his mind so stuck on what Harry just said that he barely registers that Harry has manoeuvred them so that they’re practically chest to chest. A bit of squeezing against his neck, and Louis angles his head, lets his eyelids flutter shut, giving in to the pressure of Harry’s mouth, parting his lips with a sigh. 

It’s far too clumsy and urgent, but it’s also everything these past couple of hours haven’t been; careless and pulsing and full of heat. Perhaps Harry doesn’t know how close they came to dying, but it sure feels like some subconscious part of him does, practically clawing at Louis’ jumper with his free hand, dipping low on his back to find bare skin. Louis almost flinches from the sensation of Harry’s fingers teasing his spine and, with a particularly sharp tug on his lips, his elbows buckle, prompting him to collapse into Harry’s lap. 

This is the closest he’s been to anyone in five years, and it’s heady. Louis feels drunk. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands now that he doesn’t need them to hold himself up. There is just too much milky skin, exuding warmth, exuding _heat_ , so much that it’s slightly frightening when they part for a shaky, wavering breath. 

Harry looks feverish. Louis can see the repercussions of his racing heartbeat in the tremors gripping his naked chest. His lips are so wet, and there’s the beginning of shadowy stubble on his defined jaw. How the hell is Louis supposed to put distance between them now?

“Harry,” he tries, barely recognising his own voice, but Harry dips in again, catching the next word on his tongue and inhaling it before it can form. And from one beat to the next, he’s flipped them over, making Louis’ head spin in more ways than one. Harry’s body covers his entirely, pressing him into the mattress, pressing against him in the most electrifying places. Louis hasn’t even had a fucking wank in weeks, and now blood is shooting down his body so quickly he stops feeling drunk and starts feeling high as Harry latches onto his throat, working sensitive spots with tongue and teeth. 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, his pulse practically hammering in his throat and between his legs, and Harry seem to be working really hard to give him a tennis ball-sized love bite in the crook of his neck. “Harry –” 

“Shh.” Harry hums, tickling Louis’ skin. He’s hard. And he’s not wearing anything, because Louis undressed him hours earlier, because Louis is an idiot who’s basically dug his own grave, who now can’t do anything but groan as Harry starts to palm him through his jeans, rutting up against Louis’ leg. It must hurt, his bare cock sliding over rough denim, but then again – Harry’s always liked it to hurt a little. 

_Fuck_ , Louis feels high. 

“Harry, I –” he tries again, but he makes the mistake of turning his face into Harry’s warm, soft neck that still smells damp and slightly like river, but mostly like skin. And Louis also makes the mistake of looking over Harry’s shoulder, down the strong curve of his back, and he becomes momentarily mesmerised by the way his arse clenches as he shifts his hips forward. 

“Just let me,” Harry breathes hotly into his ear, “please, Louis. Just let me,” fumbling the button of Louis’ jeans open with skilled fingers, and Louis is this close to succumbing to him completely, but then – 

But then his jumper rides up, and with a contrastingly icy, nearly blind panic, Louis realises what he’s about to give in to, and what might be revealed if he allows Harry to undress him. 

“Harry, stop,” he sputters, pushing weakly against his shoulders, but it’s enough to make Harry still. “Just – stop.” 

Harry’s breathing heavily, and his cheeks are red, but he lifts himself up onto his elbows, curls draping around his head like a curtain. “Sorry, is it – are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Louis manages. They’re still pressed together from the chest down. It’s hard to concentrate, organise his thoughts – get his blood where it needs to be. “I just…need to take Puck for a walk.” 

Harry fishmouths for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing together. “What, now?” 

Louis nods. “Yes.” 

His eyes flicker to the alarm clock on Louis’ nightstand. He licks his lips, then looks at Louis again. “It’s five in the morning.” 

“I know,” he replies curtly, swallows to wet his suddenly dry throat. “But I didn’t go last night. He’s probably desperate.” He’s not, because Louis can hear his lazy dog snoring on the rug by the bed, not even disturbed by recent antics. 

Harry blinks. “Did I, I don’t know, do something wrong?” 

Louis feels like they’re all doing everything wrong every chance they get, but that’s not the right thing to tell Harry right now. And it’s not like Louis didn’t…enjoy it. But it probably isn’t the right thing to do. He’s not being very rational when it comes to Harry. 

“It’s just –” he shrugs, suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed. “A bit fast? Maybe? I…I really do need to take Puck out though.” 

“Right.” Harry sits up between Louis’ spread legs, not minding his nudity, but then again, he never has. It would probably be strange were he to show modesty all of a sudden. “Okay.” He clearly his throat awkwardly. “Do you want me to go?” 

Louis tries not to stare. He takes a calming breath, and then another, before shaking his head. “No, you should – you should stay here. Maybe have a hot shower, if you want.” 

“Maybe I could wait for you?” Harry suggests after a moment, his voice still a fraction lower and raspier than usual. “Then we could shower together. You’ll need warming up as well.” 

Jesus Christ, Louis is fucked. He flushes hotly, throws a glance to the windows where rain is still hammering against the glass, so technically, Harry is right. He’s definitely going to need warming up. Perhaps not the way Harry is implying just yet, but – 

Louis shakes his head internally. He needs distance. An hour of trudging through the moors will do him good, surely, allowing him to clear his head away from Harry’s practically intoxicating presence. He moves, although he doesn’t really want to, and gets up onto shaky legs. Louis is still half-hard, needs to adjust himself quickly under Harry’s watchful and undressing gaze before he whistles through his teeth. Puck yawns and stretches languidly, blinks up at Louis with tired, accusing eyes. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Louis says, soaks up the comfort of the familiarity that comes from talking to his dog. “Come on.” 

He waits for Puck to trot out into the hallway before turning back to Harry, who’s flopped down onto his back, spread eagle, still as bare as the day he was born, utterly shameless. Louis resists the urge to roll his eyes, or to _look_ , and runs a hand through his hair. His fingers get caught on a knot, making him wince. 

“Right, I’ll…go then. You should sleep some more.” 

Harry smiles. “I’m good.” 

Louis doesn’t flee the room, but it’s a close call. He feels like oxygen only really gets to his brain once he’s downstairs, where Puck is already waiting and wagging his tail by the door. He must’ve forgotten about the rain, or else he wouldn’t look so eager. Louis’ knees still feel like jelly when he bends down to slip into his boots. He shrugs on his jacket and a rain cape on top of that, ties a scarf around his neck. Some fresh air will do him a lot of good, Louis guesses and opens the front door, even if that air is practically all water at this point. It’ll distract him, at least. 

Puck whines pitifully when he understands the weather situation, raindrops hitting the porch so hard water splashes into the hallway, and Louis would very much like to echo that sentiment. He doesn’t, and instead checks that he has chalk and a small flashlight in his pocket, before ducking his head and stepping outside.

 

 

It’s horrific. Louis doesn’t know where he went wrong in his life. But no, he does know. The problem is that he can’t change anything. What he really doesn’t know is why he put on clothes in the first place, because he is soaked through like he jumped back into the that goddamn river once he’s climbed the hill and is back on even ground, which is so soft that Louis instantly sinks ankle-deep into mud. 

It’s a pain in the arse to trek across the plateau in this weather, and any chalk marks he draws onto stones wash off almost immediately, but at least the stones he’d laid out a few days ago are still in place, so Louis hopes that is enough for now. 

He tries not to think about Harry, naked in his bed, waiting for him so they can pick up where they left off, and Louis has no fucking clue how he’s supposed to let him down now; how he’s supposed to come up with an excuse why Louis can’t even take his bloody shirt off in front of him. Louis guesses he could say they’re tattoos, but tattoos don’t grow, and Louis is scared the patterns on his skin will continue to do so. 

They shouldn’t sleep together anyway, Louis tries to reason with himself as he feels the temperature dropping by the minute. This entire…thing has been a trainwreck from start to finish and sure, Louis is still indescribably attracted to Harry, and he can’t deny that there are very persistent and perhaps not entirely logical feelings in place. But he’s always known that he hasn’t exactly moved on; that he is still stuck, in many aspects. Louis is clinging to Harry to preserve – 

Yeah, he thinks and stops short, mud squelching underneath his boots and rain whipping around his frigid body. That is definitely the core of everything. He’s being torn into two vastly different directions, and it’s tearing at his soul, at his heart, and Louis fears it’s very likely to tear him in half as well. Perhaps it’s practically inevitable. So why not just keep walking? And after a minute, Louis does just that. 

Halfway across the moor, the rain turns into snow.

 

 

It’s past six when Louis reaches his front door. It’s a relief and a worry all the same, because he’s already trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to get out of his sodding clothes without Harry seeing him. Maybe he’s sleeping. Louis hopes that he is, against all odds, sleeping. 

Once the front door has fallen shut behind him, and Puck is shaking out his wet fur, something settles over Louis that he can’t quite put his fingers on for a handful of seconds. Distractedly, and keeping his eyes on the sparkling chandelier, Louis peels off his half-frozen jacket, shedding melting snowflakes onto the carpet, and hangs it onto the row of hooks, where it continues to drip steadily. He unties his boots and kicks them off, watches as Puck scurries off towards the kitchen in hunt for his breakfast or a few biscuit crumbs. 

Then it hits him. 

He hadn’t left the hallway light on, Louis recalls, because he never does, and he is a creature of habit in many ways. His morning routine is always the same and he never leaves any lights on. The fuses are old. Who knows what might happen. But, as if mocking him, the chandelier shines down on him as he pads over the carpet with his drenched socks and numb toes. For a brief moment, he figures Harry might have wanted more tea, and gone back to the kitchen, but that thought, that hope, is crushed instantly when his gaze lands on the staircase, where the door leading down into the cellar is standing wide open. 

Louis’ heart leaps and then falls so rapidly he’s gripped by nausea and vertigo. There is no way that door opened on its own. There is no way the subtle glow that meets his eyes is anything other than the switched-on light bulb dangling halfway down the dusty steps. He moves quietly and without conscious thought, not sparing a single fragment of his mind for anything other than what’s right in front of him as he makes his way down the hall, torn between wanting to scream and wanting to throw up. 

He should’ve known; Louis should’ve known that he couldn’t leave Harry alone in his house, not after everything, not with Harry being who he is and doing what he does, and it’s a series of very unfortunate events, yes, but maybe, just maybe, it’s been as inevitable as everything else. That doesn’t make it easier to swallow. That doesn’t mean he’s prepared for the view that’s presented to him once he’s descended the stairs. 

He’s not sure how Harry, clad only in a pair of pyjama trousers that he must’ve taken out of Louis’ wardrobe, hasn’t noticed him, how he hadn’t heard the front door fall shut, but he seems transfixed, even in the barely there light, the spooky glow, the air so full of dust it kind of looks like it’s snowing inside as well. And Louis can’t even blame him for it, standing smack dab in the middle of the large pentagram his Nan had painted across nearly the entire floor, the white paint faded but still a stark contrast in the dark. And it’s dark, yes, but just bright enough for it all to be as visible as it needs to be. Harry’s seen it now. There’s nothing Louis can do to reverse that. 

Harry can see the crooked shelves lining the walls, filled with old books, rusty trinkets, and small glasses and mason jars holding dried herbs and powders and different kinds of soil. He can see wind chimes out of string and twigs and small bones, and he can see the runes, the chalk scribbles all over the stone where it’s still bare. And Louis knows what this looks like; knows what he himself thought so many years ago when he’d first followed his grandmother down here. It feels like a lifetime ago, but Louis can remember the first thought that had fluttered through his head, and he doubts Harry’s too dissimilar. 

But that doesn’t stop the panic rising in Louis’ chest or the betrayal that grips him because…because Harry has betrayed his trust again, and he’s snooped around, probably started as soon as Louis was out the door, and Louis – 

A part of Louis hates him for that, hates him so deeply for digging when he shouldn’t have, for not respecting that this is Louis’ home and his life and the very core of his soul he wasn’t willing to share, wasn’t allowed to share. 

“What are you doing?” he asks quietly, but Harry can hear him just fine, whipping around with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. 

“Louis –” 

“How dare you,” Louis continues, feeling bile rise in his throat at the intrusion, feeling like Harry didn’t just go down into the cellar, but prised his ribs apart to shine a light into his insides. “How fucking _dare_ you –” 

“I didn’t mean –” 

“– snoop around like that when I’m not here? It’s not your place, it’s _not_ and –” 

“Louis, I know, I’m sorry,” Harry is quick to interject while Louis is desperately fumbling for words, “I didn’t mean to, I just –” And he glances around almost helplessly, like he doesn’t understand, and he really doesn’t, Louis guesses, how could he? “What is all of this?”

Louis narrows his eyes at him, his throat stings. “It’s none of your fucking business,” he hisses. “None of this is any of your fucking business, but you don’t care about that, do you? That we don’t want you here, that _I_ don’t fucking want you here if all you do is use me for your goddamn story!” 

“I’m not, Louis, I swear,” and Harry takes a step towards him, stops when he sees how Louis goes rigid. “I was…curious, that’s all, and I don’t know why I came down here, but I just – I don’t understand. What does all of this – I mean – there are bloody bones down here and…all of this.” He gestures around helplessly, face drawn in confusion, as Louis’ heart jackrabbits away, aching in his chest, making his eyes water. 

“Yeah, right. Like you’re not going to head back to London and write about the freak living all on his own, with _this_ in the cellar and –” 

“I’m not going to do that,” Harry objects firmly, getting closer, but Louis feels paralysed. “I promise. It’s just – if you’d only explain, because I’m trying really hard not to think about what else you might be hiding. Or whom.” 

Louis lifts his chin. “You think I’m the one who killed those people?” 

“I don’t want to!” Harry calls out desperately, his voice echoing through the large room. “But what am I supposed to think when this looks like it came straight out of _The Witches of Eastwick_? Fuck!” He takes a couple of ragged breaths, his chest rising and falling quickly. 

But Louis can’t explain it. What the hell does Harry expect? That Louis is ready to trust him and spill everything? He doesn’t care what Harry thinks, or anyone else for that matter. It doesn’t fucking matter, because Louis knows the truth, and Liam and Karen and Geoff and all the others, they know the truth as well. It doesn’t matter what Harry thinks – it shouldn’t. And Louis curses himself, because deep down, he knows it matters. He’s not a bad person. He’s short-tempered and closed off and stubborn and most of the time an absolute pain in the arse. But Louis is not a bad person. 

“I need a fucking drink,” he breathes, and turns on his heels. “And you need to get out.” Harry remains frozen to the spot for another moment before hurrying after Louis, reaching him at the top of the stairs, touching a hand to his elbow. Louis whirls around, shoves at Harry’s bare chest. “I said get out,” then he continues on his way to the kitchen, his vision starting to cloud and his legs feeling like they’re not even part of his body anymore, and Harry continues to follow him, can’t seem to take a fucking hint, but all Louis wants right now is a drink, something strong and sharp, to numb his senses and thoughts. 

There’s a bottle of whiskey stashed away in one of the cupboards, and Louis makes a beeline for it, stepping around the shards that are still on the floor, eyes flickering to Puck, who’s lying in the corner, munching on a biscuit. His hands are shaking when they close around the neck of the bottle and his jaw locks trying to fumble it open. It takes a minute of silent curses and clenched teeth before Louis manages to unscrew it. 

“Don’t send me away now.” 

Louis flinches. The bottle slips from his grasp and hits the ground with an eardrum-shattering crash. It bursts into innumerable pieces and the amber liquid washes over his and Harry’s feet. Puck lets out a startled yelp, tail between his legs. Louis’ heart is in his throat. 

“Go away,” Louis says, even as Harry moves closer, careful to avoid the broken pieces in the puddle on the floor. 

Harry shakes his head. “No.” 

Louis grits his teeth and bends down, determined to ignore Harry until he gets it. He starts to pick up the shards, uttering one curse after the other because everything seems to be set against him, not even granting him a single, peaceful glass of whiskey. Harry kneels down, attempting to help, but Louis doesn’t want him here, he doesn’t want him close, so he shoves him away, picks up a piece, is about to pick up another when Harry leans in again. 

It’s an impulse – balling his fists with all the tension that has a firm hold of his body. It’s inexplicably stupid, to grip broken glass so tightly, and Louis gasps when it slices right across his palm, which is already battered and sliced open, the plasters barely holding anything together. The shard falls to the floor, rattling, as pain shoots up Louis’ arm, but before he can cradle his hand to his chest instinctively, subconsciously wanting to shield it from view like he’s learned to do over the course of many years, Harry reaches for his wrist. 

“Here, let me,” he starts, undoubtedly only wanting to help, but the panic that has been simmering close to the surface for what feels like hours now, gnawing away at Louis’ substance, finally manages to break through. 

Desperately, Louis tries to yank his hand out of Harry’s, but he’s tired, and he’s drained and exhausted and Harry holds on with a puzzled look on his face, no idea why Louis is reacting this way and now probably getting worried that Louis is going to hurt himself even more. 

“It’s fine,” Louis tries and he can’t keep out of his voice how terrified he is all of a sudden, “I can – I just need to –” 

“Louis, just let me help,” Harry insists, not letting go, and Louis can feel it now, the gashes starting to bleed, slowly trickling down his palm and towards where Harry has his wrist encircled. It’s too late now. Because Harry is looking at his hand, and he sees it; how it’s too thick, too _black_ even in the dim light of the kitchen, too _abnormal_ to be considered normal blood. And Louis can practically watch as Harry’s complexion begins to lose any trace of colour. 

It’s like his strings are cut loose, all tension seeping out of his body and he slumps back, and sags against the kitchen cabinets. Harry’s not letting go, eyes fixed on his own hand and Louis’ wrist, both becoming entirely covered in Louis’s black blood, and he looks dumbfounded, turning Louis’ arm into the light like he can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. Louis closes his eyes, attempts to get his breathing under control again, and after a beat or two, he starts to feel eerily calm. 

It’s all over now. Harry is going to run for the hills either way, whether Louis tells him the truth or not. 

The kitchen is so quiet, especially now that the apocalyptic rain has turned into thick snowflakes that don’t make a sound as they fall, dusting the garden like icing sugar. Louis can hear Puck’s paws scrape over the floor as he rolls up in the corner by the range with a few huffs, licking the tiles to pick up more biscuit crumbs, apparently needing to warm up more than he wants to growl at Harry or comment on what’s going on. He’s probably just as done as Louis. 

It takes another minute or two until Harry releases his wrist and Louis can finally pull his hand to his chest, eyes downcast, avoiding looking at Harry. He pulls the hem of the t-shirt he has on under his jumper to dab at his bleeding palm, soaking the white fabric, and Louis knows that Harry is watching it all like a hawk. Swallowing thickly, he quietly bemoans the loss of the whiskey, especially when he can smell it all over. Thankfully, Louis has enough dignity left not to go onto his knees and lick it off the floor like Puck is chasing the crumbs. 

When Harry suddenly speaks up, it’s quiet, but it still startles Louis, making his heart jump once more. He bites down on his bottom lip. 

“Five people were killed, and nobody seems to know how or why,” Harry says slowly, carefully, taking a long pause that appears to drag on even longer until he decides he’s ready to continue. “And then you tell me all these stories. About the mines and…goblins and hellhounds and stone circles and then there’s a massive pentagram downstairs and I just – they weren’t just stories, were they? There’s something else going on.” 

Sometimes Louis wishes they were just that, and sometimes he imagines how much easier it would be if that were the case, and how much easier his life might have turned out. But then again – that’s not right, he guesses. His life would have been very different, yes, but not in a way he’d prefer. With a weary sigh, Louis brings his unharmed hand to his forehead, where damp hair is sticking to his skin. He brushes it away irritably, and keeps his eyes on the wet floor, not quite knowing where to start.

“People first settled here a couple of hundred years ago,” Louis settles on eventually. He guesses it’s best to elaborate. “Only a few nuns and their flock. They built a church, apparently. But after a couple of…encounters, the people here abandoned their faith and returned to paganism, picked up forgotten practices because they believed that it would protect them. They were isolated enough, and the community grew, not by much, to be fair, but they were pretty undisturbed for a long time.” 

“What does that –” Harry starts, but cuts off when he realises Louis just needs a moment to organise his thoughts, to think about what to say next. And Louis knows he has to go on. But he still wants that drink. And he’s trying really hard to remember whether he’s got something else stashed away. 

“But, you know, nobody could escape the Industrial Revolution, right? They found iron, and a few other things. The villagers didn’t want to sell the land, so some developers leased it from my…my ancestors, which brought in a lot of money, but even more trouble.” Louis clears his throat and dares to glance up. “Remember when we watched the first _Lord of the Rings_ movie? The scenes in the mines and the dwarves digging too deep?” 

Harry is staring at him, confused but attentive. He nods. 

“Well. There weren’t any dwarves. And they didn’t wake up some flaming giant with a whip.” He clears his throat. His hands are still burning, shaking, his body tingling from head to toe. “But they did wake…them. Or at least, disturbed a balance that the villagers had worked hundreds of years to preserve.” 

“Who’s _them_?” Harry asks. 

Well, that’s what it all boils down to, Louis thinks, all of a sudden feeling nearly hysterical. It just – it sounds too absurd saying it out loud. He shrugs. “There are a few names in folklore. Faeries, elves, spirits…among others.” 

“What?” 

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “I’m not asking you to believe me,” he snaps and Harry ducks his head. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean – it’s just,” and he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. “Sorry. Go on.” 

Louis doesn’t want to go on. He can’t help but think back to the conversation he had with Liam, about confiding in someone, about telling Harry the truth, and what that’d mean, and now here he is, and just like Louis had predicted, it’s no easy pill to swallow if you’re not from Rosedale Abbey, if you haven’t felt what it’s like to grow up in this valley.

“There were accidents. Too many to be called that. But safety precautions weren’t exactly a thing back then, so I guess it was easy to brush it all under the carpet. And that’s when the stories started to circulate. Less for the villagers, because they knew, but for strangers. For them, it was just fairytales; stupid stories really.” Louis shrugs. “But people were still superstitious. So they listened. Eventually, the mines were shut down, and most people left this place. Still, the damage was done, and there was no going back.” 

He pulls his t-shirt away from his drying palm and it stings briefly when it sticks to the wound. Louis hisses quietly through his teeth, shakes his wrist and flexes his fingers to stop them from going numb again.

“That was a hundred years ago, about that, and the mayor at the time decided it was the duty of his family to keep Rosedale Abbey safe, and to restore the balance between the outside world and…and the one underneath.” 

“Christ,” Harry lets out disbelievingly, but perhaps he just can’t believe the crap coming out of Louis’ mouth. Louis decides to pay him no mind, and goes on.

“There were centuries of knowledge to pass down, and he passed it down to his daughter, me Nan, and…she tried to pass it down to me, because me mum left, but then I left as well. Well,” Louis can’t help but let out a dry, joyless laugh, “I say me grandmother…” 

He realises that Harry doesn’t get it, not quite yet, and why would he? He’s sitting on the floor opposite Louis, the hem of his trousers wet with whiskey, looking ethereal and all too real at the same time, so much that it’s making Louis’ heart ache more than it’s ever ached before because…because he’s never told this to anyone before. He’s never needed to, because the people here had always kind of known, one way or the other, perhaps not explicitly, but they had _known_. And later on, Louis had decided never to speak about it. That’s about to change. 

“What do you mean?” Harry wonders out loud after Louis doesn’t pick up the thread where he’s left it. “Wasn’t she – wasn’t she your grandmother?” 

His throat is drier than sandpaper. “Me mum wasn’t really me mother either.” 

“Lou…” 

Louis thinks his heart should probably beat faster. He feels like this should trigger some sort of emotional or physical reaction, but nothing happens. No acceleration of his pulse, no nausea rising in his belly – nothing. He’s not entirely numb, but he doesn’t exactly feel much either. 

“They found me when I was about two, on Christmas Eve,” he says, and breathes out. Somehow, it still manages to be a relief. “Out on the moor. At least, I looked like I was two. Me mum was home from university. Wanted to check in with the police about missing children, but – me Nan stopped her. Because…she knew.” 

“Knew what?” 

“That I was a changeling.” 

The ground doesn’t open up to swallow Louis, which is unfortunate. He can’t quite stand the thought of looking Harry in the eye now, but simultaneously, he feels his gaze drawn to him. Harry looks – shocked isn’t the right word. Overwhelmed, perhaps, coming face to face with how much Louis has kept from him, the extent of Louis’ lies, his hypocrisy. 

Harry’s brows furrow. He seems desperate to keep his composure, to not let it show how baffled he is. “What does that mean?” 

“It’s the name we’ve been given,” Louis explains slowly after taking in more air that smells very much like alcohol. “People like me. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. Cuckoo’s children, basically.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

Louis doesn’t think he’s ever understood it either, but unfortunately, as he’s come to learn recently, that doesn’t make it less true. “It happens on occasion,” he goes on to explain, “that the…faeries – they leave one of their offspring with…humans. As a token. To look after. It’s an exchange, of sorts. People raising their young ones and in return, they leave them be. Maybe give a bit of good fortune.” 

Harry fishmouths at him, absolutely gobsmacked, and he can’t get a word out, so Louis uses his silence to push on, to get this over with as quickly as possible. 

“Me mum didn’t quite buy it, and took me with her. But I started to freak her out after a while, and then I got really sick all of a sudden, so she came back, dropped me off with me Nan, and left for good.” 

“Lou,” Harry finds his voice again, “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” he replies. “Can’t exactly blame her. Must’ve been quite creepy as a child. Wasn’t exactly normal growing up either,” and Louis can’t explain it, how out of place he’d felt and how he’d always been an outsider, even when he wasn’t excluded, even when he was the centre of attention. He’d craved that later on, to counteract how out of touch he really was with everyone. Harry doesn’t need to know all of that. And Louis doesn’t need to jabber on and on about it. It’s uncomfortable enough as it is. 

“But you’re…you’re…” 

Louis can guess what Harry is struggling with. “I look pretty normal, right? Pretty human. I hear things, though; things I shouldn’t be able to hear. Feel them, too. It’s hard to describe.” 

Harry looks like he wants to reach out. Like he wants to touch but is suddenly unsure if he’s allowed – if he can. “How long have you known?” 

At least he’s not questioning Louis. “Always, I guess. Deep down. A sense that there was something wrong with me. And when I turned eighteen, I went to Pickering with Liam and a few of me mates, and we got pissed. They dared me to go see Mrs. Appleton,” and when he registers Harry’s confused stare, he elaborates, “friend of me Nan’s. Runs a little esoteric-style shop, and she laid out cards for me, had no idea that me Nan hadn’t told me anything and – well.”

He folds up his legs, makes himself small. His clothes are still wet, making him shiver. “I didn’t want to believe it. Nearly crashed me car driving back, confronted me grandmother and she told me the truth, and a lot of other things, and eventually I – I ran away.” 

“To Manchester.”

Louis nods. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, which is an accurate summary. He looks a bit like a fish out of water, or maybe like Louis just ran him over, which he probably did, verbally. He’d been overwhelmed as well, and he guesses it’s different, but he can still sympathise. He’s not sure if Harry believes it all, but there nothing Louis can do about that. “I didn’t slip, did I?” 

Ah, yes. There’s that. “No. Sorry. You were right. There’s a kelpie in the river. You should google it. Fascinating but nasty things. It pulled you in. It…kind of drowned four of the victims as well.” 

At that, Harry’s jaw falls down and the shock is evident on his face when he realises what Louis is saying. He flounders, “You…you – I mean – did you…did you save me from drowning? That – thing pulled me in and you…”

“Jumped in after you, yeah,” Louis says with a shrugs. “Technically, it’s my fault it wanted to drown you in the first place.” 

“How?” 

Louis isn’t sure how to explain that particular suspicion of his. He doesn’t have absolute certainty, but in the last few days, things have started to become a lot clearer, even if he’s tried very hard to deny and ignore it. 

“Changelings don’t spend their whole lives with their…human families,” he says quietly, because that’s when his throat starts to clog up a bit, making it harder to breathe, harder to swallow, harder to speak. He’s had time to come to terms with what he is; he’s not had as much time coming to terms with what he’s likely to become. “They – well. They go back eventually.” 

“Go back where?” Harry asks, but a second later, he gets it. “Oh. But, how’d you even go back? How would that be possible?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea. I have a lot of regrets,” Louis tells him and lowers his eyes to the black gash that cuts diagonally across his left palm. “One of them is not allowing me Nan to explain, not giving her the opportunity to share everything she knew. She wrote down some things, but not all of it and…and then she died. Never had the chance to apologise to her either.” 

He chews on his lip, lets his head loll to the side, sending his gaze out the window, where he assumes the sun must be teasing the horizon already. It feels like they’ve been sitting here for ages, but it’s probably not been very long at all. “And now five people are dead because of me,” he concludes with a sigh, keeping his eyes glued to the window. “Five people are dead, and you nearly drowned, because I was stupid and childish and a coward, and abandoned my home, leaving everyone else to deal with this mess.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything. Louis half expects him to get up and go upstairs to put on anything that will be sufficient to get him out of this house and back to the Inn, as far away from Louis as possible. If he’s lucky, it’s not properly sunken in yet, and Louis can bask in Harry’s presence for a bit longer like the pathetic human being that he is. Or…isn’t. 

Puck is snoring quietly, and Louis almost has to laugh, because he’s dreaming again, undoubtedly, chasing mice and grouses and whatever else he can scent. Maybe he’s dreaming of more biscuits. That’s just as likely. 

“I don’t think it’s your fault,” Harry speaks up, drawing Louis’ attention back in.

Louis guesses he means well, but it’s still not true. “It is my fault.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know,” Louis replies resolutely. “I just do. I didn’t know what it all meant, in the beginning. At first I thought they were threatening me, or trying to lure me out, because they couldn’t get through the barriers me grandmother had created and that I’m still trying to uphold. I’m not one hundred percent sure how it all works,” he adds on, “but there are certain runes that have certain meanings, and every day, before sunrise and after sunset, I take a circular route around the village, and I draw runes.” 

Understanding dawns on Harry’s face, brightening it minimally. “Is that why you insisted on going out this morning?” 

“Yeah,” Louis confirms curtly. “But what I was doing wasn’t helping, evidently, and then I realised…I realised they weren’t threatening me. They were sacrificing those people to weaken the spell, the glamour that – that makes me look like this. That’s my guess, at least,” and he doesn’t need to add this, but he’s spilled so much this morning that he figures why the hell not. “There’s a pull. Like they’re calling for me. And every day, it becomes harder not to just – give in.” 

Harry gets up. That was probably the last straw. Louis can’t blame him for wanting to make a run for it. It’s undoubtedly the most abstruse story he’s ever been told and he should walk away while he can. There’s nothing binding Harry to Rosedale Abbey, and if he’s smart, he’ll get out of here within the hour. So yes, Louis expects Harry to get up and leave the kitchen without turning back, but instead, Harry steps over the broken glass, tries to avoid the puddle before dropping back down right next to Louis, their shoulders and knees touching. Louis blinks at him confusedly, but before he can open his mouth, Harry wraps both arms around his shoulders and pulls him in.

Louis slumps against him, nose buried in the crook where Harry’s neck meets his shoulders, indescribably soft and warm and everything Louis wants but can’t have. 

“Is that why you pushed me away? Why you kept saying we couldn’t work out?” 

Louis nods against his shoulder, breathing him in deeply and soaking up his warmth. “I don’t even know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how to stop it, or even how long it’ll take and you shouldn’t have to be here for that when I’m not even –”

“You’re an idiot. You’re such a fucking idiot,” Harry says into his hair that’s still wet and probably really gross. “I don’t care about any of this. Couldn’t give less of a fuck, actually.” 

“Harry –” 

“No,” Harry cuts him off instantly. “It’s my turn to talk. And it might not have sunk in just yet, but I don’t care. I really don’t. So please, stop being a fucking martyr and let me be here, okay? You could tell me you’re a bloody unicorn and I wouldn’t care.”

Louis doesn’t want to cry. He really doesn’t want to cry, so he squeezes his eyes shut against Harry’s skin and tries to keep it in, but it’s hard, especially when Harry pulls him even closer, fingers skimming his clammy back, caressing him like he’s something precious and not – 

“Maybe it sounds stupid,” he says, and Louis can practically feel his voice rumbling softly in his throat, tickling his cheek, “but you were always different. Always special. I remember when I first saw you, right before Niall introduced us, I couldn’t believe you were real. I couldn’t believe someone like you existed. And maybe it’s because you’re…a changeling, but it doesn’t matter,” Harry insists. “You’re special. But you’re special _to me_ as well.” 

Louis wishes he could hug him back just as tightly, and say something just as lovely, but his arms are sore and so is his throat and he’s focusing all his energy into the effort not to cry, because on top of everything, he’s also fucking exhausted. 

“So please don’t send me away again,” Harry continues, softly pleading, lips skimming the top of Louis’ head. “We’ll figure something out together, all right? Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but we’ll figure this out, and nobody will die, just – don’t send me away again. We’ve seen what happens when you do that. ‘s not good.” 

Despite everything, Louis has to bark out a laugh and slaps Harry’s arm weakly. “God, shut up.” 

“I’m just saying,” Harry chuckles, “you should trust me more, and yourself less. I’ve got a better track record.” 

Louis turns his head and finds Harry already looking at him. “I’d say both our track records are fucking disasters.” 

Harry pokes his tongue out. “Won’t argue with that. We should let Niall make all the decisions.” A cheeky sparkle appears in Harry’s eyes and Louis can’t help but flush. “But maybe it’s a good idea to have a shower first. You must be freezing.” 

Louis actually isn’t. He knows he should be on the brink of freezing, but he only feels wet, clammy and stiff. Trying to wrap his head around it, Louis barely notices Harry taking his arms and getting the both of them to their feet. His skin isn’t numb and it isn’t overly sensitive either, and Louis can only classify the sensation that his soaked-through clothes leave as they drag over his body as strange. It’s something that locks him in his own head for as long as it takes Harry to lead them up the stairs and onto the first floor. Only when the familiar floorboards creak beneath their combined weight does Louis manage to snap out of it. 

“End of the hall, on the left,” he tells Harry, who probably doesn’t know where the bathroom is. Maybe he does, though. He found the cellar, after all. 

Louis’ bedroom is opposite the bathroom, door slightly ajar and a soft glow shining a small cone of light onto the runner. Harry must’ve switched on the small lamp on Louis’ bedside table. The light bulb in the bathroom buzzes softly when Louis flicks the switch, the air cold and biting, frost and snow already sticking to the window amidst a mild, grey glow shining through from the outside. Harry squeezes his wrist once before releasing it and turning towards the shower stall with another reassuring smile, and Louis guesses he should get fresh towels out of the cabinet in the corner, or at least get rid of his wet shoes and socks – 

But his heart is starting to pound, breath getting caught in his throat. Louis finds himself transfixed watching Harry’s back muscles move in the dim light as he stretches his arms out to fiddle with the shower, pyjama trousers sitting low enough on his hips to hint at the slight swell of his arse. 

The pipes are old, probably halfway to frozen at this point, and the showerhead sputters twice before suddenly erupting. Harry steps away and turns back to face Louis, drops of water glistening on his arms and chest, and Louis shudders as a strange concoction of desire and anxiety starts to simmer in his stomach. 

Harry’s smile fades slowly, and he furrows his brows in question. “Do you – I’m sorry. Should I leave?” 

It would probably be best for Harry to leave, for them to shower separately and talk some things over, because although there are no more lies and half-truths standing between them, Louis doesn’t think they have everything resolved. Jumping ahead to a place their current relationship is not yet at (and might not ever be) is probably not a good idea. 

But Louis doesn’t tell Harry to leave. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all at first, his mind spinning around what he’s revealed to Harry and how Harry reacted and how Harry might react when he not only knows what Louis has kept from him for so long, but sees the physical manifestation of it. Louis’ heart is throbbing, and he’s tired and overwhelmed and scared that Harry will hightail it out of here once he sees actual proof that Louis isn’t exactly human. 

Harry said he didn’t care, but Louis wouldn’t blame him if he did. 

“Please don’t freak out,” he pleads, holding Harry’s confused gaze for a moment before breathing in deeply and closing his eyes. He grabs the hem of his heavy, damp jumper and pulls it over his head with one swift motion. It falls to the floor with a wet slap and Louis can hear Harry’s quiet but sharp intake of air. Louis is still wearing a t-shirt underneath, but it has short sleeves and its white fabric is probably close to being see-through, sticking to his chest and very clearly hinting at what lies underneath. He steels himself one more time and absentmindedly guesses that he was wrong, that this is the last secret standing between them. Once he takes off his t-shirt and allows Harry to see, Louis will have officially bared every last thing to him, and he doesn’t understand why that thought doesn’t terrify him the way it would’ve have just a day before. 

Without any more preamble, the t-shirt joins his jumper on the floor and Louis swallows thickly, clenches his fists by his sides and keeps his eyes on his feet. Apart from the running water of the shower, it’s almost eerily silent and for a second, Louis wonders why _he_ doesn’t hightail it out of here. He’s so preoccupied with quenching the anxiety in his belly that he flinches violently when he feels fingertips touching his arm. 

Louis shrinks back, doorknob digging into his back and making him wince, and suddenly Harry is so close that Louis can feel his warm breath on his face, can see one droplet crawl over his collarbone and down his chest, making it appear like one of the swallows is crying. His eyes flicker up after another whispering touch, but Harry’s gaze is on Louis’ arm, his chest, drinking in the marks on his skin like words on a page. 

Carefully, almost reverently, Harry’s index finger follows one of the nearly black lines from Louis’ wrist to the crook of his elbow. It makes Louis shiver, tremble from head to toe, his heart jumping up into his throat. From his elbow, up his arm and to his shoulder, ghosting along Louis’ collarbone and finally stopping at the base of his throat, where Harry can undoubtedly feel the way Louis’ pulse is racing. And because Harry seems intent on putting even the last nail into Louis’ coffin, he raises his right hand and places his palm on Louis’ chest, right above his heart. 

It’s not like Louis ever stood a chance. 

“What do they mean?” Harry asks, sounding breathless. 

When Louis replies, his voice is barely above a whisper either. “I don’t know. I’ve not – I’ve not exactly spent a lot of time looking at them. They just…appeared one day. And they’re growing.” 

Harry tilts his head to the side. “Do they hurt?” 

Louis shrugs half-heartedly, chews on his lips for a moment, dropping his eyes to the floor once more. “Not really. I mean…sometimes they tingle a little, sometimes more, depending on –” He breaks off, unsure how to articulate that particular phenomenon. 

“Depending on what?” 

“I’m not sure,” Louis sighs heavily. “I think it’s the closer I get – I mean the more – the more I –” 

“Lou,” Harry cuts him off gently and runs his thumb along Louis’ jaw, prompting him to look up again. He doesn’t need to say anything else. Louis gets what Harry means – that it’s okay for him not to have all the answers, to be unsure what exactly is happening and why. But there’s also that curious glint in Harry’s eyes, like he’s itching to ask another question, which he does only a moment later. “Do you think…that means you’re changing?” 

“Who the fuck knows,” Louis replies. The doorknob is still digging into his spine. He feels tired. “Maybe I’ll build myself a cocoon and turn into a fucking butterfly.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know.” Louis sighs again. “I just need to turn it into a joke, because if I take this seriously, I will actually go insane.” 

The sad thing is, about this, Louis is absolutely serious. He feels like he’s holding on to his sanity by a single, fraying thread. It won’t take much for that thread to rip, and if Louis starts actively thinking about what might happen to him, physically and mentally, he could just as well just go outside, lie down and let himself be slowly buried by the falling snow. 

“Sorry.” Harry pulls a face, stretching his mouth. He looks ridiculous. “It’s hard to comprehend.” 

Louis mutters, “you’re telling me,” and maybe it’s fatigue taking over, maybe it’s gravity working its magic, or maybe Louis is just telling himself he doesn’t move very intentionally when he slumps forward, leaning heavily against Harry and touching his forehead to Harry’s shoulder. 

Harry seems surprised for a beat before his arms come up around Louis, squeezing him against his chest, breath tickling the side of Louis’ face. He starts running his fingers up and down Louis’ spine and then, after about a minute of standing together in silence, starts moving them towards the shower with slow but steady steps. It’s more waddling than walking, neither of them willing to let go, and Louis only realises they’re still half-dressed when they’re standing under the warm spray. 

He doesn’t care, though. Just holds on a little tighter and closes his eyes against Harry’s wet skin.

 

  

“The sheets are still in the drier,” he says a bit dumbly when they return to his bedroom wrapped in towels, still dripping. Harry doesn’t reply, just pulls him onto the mattress, reaches for the blankets and throws pushed aside, and cocoons them in. 

Outside, it continues to snow.

 

 

***

 

_to be continued._

 


	7. VII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can you do magic?”
> 
> Louis startles and turns his head so quickly he feels dizzy for a moment. “What?”
> 
> “Magic,” Harry repeats, looking like he can’t quite believe he’s actually asking that.
> 
> Louis actually can’t believe it either. “This isn’t Harry Potter, mate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watched all seasons of the it crowd while writing this. don't ask me why. (but do watch it. it's brilliant)
> 
> sorry for the delay, things are manic and will continue to be so, so i can't make any certain promises when the last chapter will be ready. i am doing my best though, that _i_ can promise.
> 
> as always, thanks to [geeb](http://www.genuinelybelieve.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing. 
> 
> feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the few original characters that float around in the background. This is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities with reality are unintended and incidental.
> 
> **WARNINGS** for this chapter: swearing, as usual.

 

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

 

His phone is vibrating on the nightstand, but Louis refuses to move. He feels warm, and rested, and is just so bloody comfortable, probably hasn’t slept this well in years, at least not since – well. Harry is still snoring quietly, his arm draped heavily over Louis’ hip. Louis doesn’t want to wake him up. In fact, Louis would like to go back to sleep as well, but his phone is incessant, buzzing and buzzing and buzzing away.

Louis lets out a quiet groan. It’s probably Liam, about to have kittens because he’s worrying and Louis guesses there’s good reason for that, since Harry didn’t return to the Inn, and it’s been snowing for hours without any chance of it stopping any time soon. He should answer the phone. Trying to move without jostling Harry, Louis stretches out his arm and fishes for the vibrating monstrosity that is dead set on disturbing his morning. When he lifts it up to his face, he sees that it’s more midday than morning, which makes Liam’s worry even more understandable. 

“Yes?” he answers as soon as he’s put the phone to his ear, rolling out of Harry’s grip and swinging his still slightly sore legs over the edge of the bed. It’s really fucking cold without their cocoon of blankets, and goosebumps break out all over his body immediately. 

“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Liam asks. He sounds distressed. 

Louis fishes for one of the throws and wraps it around his shoulders, getting to his feet. “I’m answering it now, aren’t I?”

Liam sighs exasperatedly. “I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour!”

“I was sleeping,” Louis replies and leaves his bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him. 

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because Harry’s still asleep.” It slips out before Louis can stop himself. He slaps a hand over his mouth, but the words are already out. And it’s clear that Liam heard exactly what he said, and knows exactly what that implies, because he’s suspiciously silent for as long as it takes Louis to get to the ground floor. 

When Liam speaks up again, he doesn’t sound as surprised as Louis expected. “So he’s with you then?

“Evidently.”

“Oi, don’t get snarky. We were just worried when he didn’t come back last night. But then Niall said –”

“Oh God,” Louis cuts his friend off quickly, “please, Liam. Do not repeat what Niall said. We just – we talked, okay? And he ended up staying over due to…extenuating circumstances.”

Liam pauses. “Extenuating circumstances?” he asks after a beat. “Are you guys okay?”

Louis says, “We are now”, and realises a second later that that’s also something he probably should have kept mum about. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Did something happen?”

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. He walks into the kitchen as he contemplates what to tell Liam. Puck is lying in his dog bed and he looks at Louis when he approaches, but doesn’t move, which is unusual for him; Louis guesses he’s still mardy for having to sleep downstairs and alone. He makes a mental note to sneak him some treats later as he steps around the remains of the whiskey bottle, booze entirely dried but leaving the ground sticky. 

He sighs. “I don’t really feel like telling you about this over the phone. We’re both okay. So it doesn’t matter,” and he knows Liam wants to protest, wants to ask again, so he quickly veers the conversation into a different direction. “Anyway. Why did you call? To ask about Harry?”

“Oh.” Liam says, and a moment later adds, “actually, no. Dad told me to call you. Apparently we’re snowed in. And it’s likely they’re not going to clear up the roads until tomorrow. So.”

Louis hums. “Right. That stinks.”

“I mean,” Liam continues, “I guess in an emergency we could take the Range Rover. We’ve got some non-skid chains somewhere, I think.”

“An emergency,” Louis repeats, hand frozen around the handle of the kettle. He wonders if Liam intended to imply what Louis thinks he’s implying. Considering what happened last night, it’s probably normal to feel slightly concerned at the prospect of them being cut off from the surrounding towns and villages. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Liam is silent. Louis traps his phone between ear and shoulder, steps around the broken glass on the floor to the sink to fill the kettle. He needs tea, and he definitely needs to check on his washing and the old boiler. 

“Anyway,” Liam speaks up eventually after Louis has put the kettle back on the range. “Mum is asking if you’re coming round for tea later? Around six?”

“Sure,” Louis replies, although he dreads walking back to the spot where they nearly drowned half a day ago. He hopes the bridge has survived this godawful weather, because if he never has to get wet again in his entire life, it’ll be too soon. “Yeah, we’ll be over at six.”

“Okay, good,” Liam says. 

“And Liam?” Louis asks as an afterthought.

“Yeah?”

Louis glances out the window. Everything is white – and entirely too quiet. “Make sure Niall doesn’t go out on his own.”   
  
  
  


Harry stumbles into the kitchen about half an hour later, after Louis has already managed to clean up the mess from the previous night and has spent a solid ten minutes rubbing his dog’s belly to appease him. He doesn’t think he’s forgiven yet, but he guesses he’ll be fine if he sneaks Puck some of Karen’s roast chicken tonight. Tea’s already brewing in the pot, bread is in the toaster, and thankfully, Louis still has some jam and butter in the fridge. Other than that – well. He hopes they manage to clear the road soon, because he needs to get supplies. 

“Hey,” he breathes and leans back against the counter. Harry is hovering in the doorway, not moving, not saying anything, so Louis clears his throat and adds, “Sorry. For leaving, I mean. It’s just, Liam called to check on us, and I didn’t want to wake you.” 

He’s not wearing any clothes. And now Louis feels a bit stupid, clutching the blanket that’s draped over his shoulder. He should have put on underwear at least, because he can’t blame Harry for not wearing any; his clothes are still in the dryer. 

“Hey,” Harry echoes after a moment, smile tugging on his lips, then he pushes off the doorframe and walks through the kitchen towards Louis, who desperately tries to keep his eyes above Harry’s waist as he fights the blush that’s creeping up his face. He’s quick to attach himself to Louis’ front, hugging his waist and pulling him in, and Louis’ fingers twitch so much in response that the blanket falls to the floor. From the wolfish grin that takes over Harry’s face, Louis guesses that it was absolutely intentional.

Louis is only compelled to move when Harry leans in. “Morning breath,” he utters quickly. It’s not like he doesn’t fancy a cheeky, naked snog in the kitchen, but there is still some part of him that thinks they should talk this over, not jump in head first, not move quite as fast. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea for them to just pick up where they left off. 

Harry levels him with an unimpressed look. “Lou,” he tells him, “I once kissed you five minutes after you threw up on Niall’s shoes. I think I can handle a bit of morning breath.” Then he leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “And to be fair, I’m not exactly minty fresh either.”

He pinches Louis’ arse and uses Louis’ subsequent yelp to pull him in for a wet, open-mouthed kiss that, yes, does taste a bit sour if Louis is being perfectly honest, but Harry is also right in saying that they’ve had worse. Louis finds he doesn’t mind morning breath so much when there is warm, naked skin pressed to him in all the right places. His own hands roam over Harry’s back on their own accord, tracing his ribcage before wandering down to his delightfully squishy hips that stand in such contrast to the hard, flat pane of his stomach and the quickly hardening line of his –

“Fuck,” Louis gasps and pushes Harry back before his head becomes too clouded to think rationally. “We’re not doing it in front of my dog.”

Harry’s eyes are glassy and he throws a quick look over his shoulder where Puck is lying in his basket, eyeing them, unimpressed. He’s smirking when he turns back to Louis. “Really? Don’t think he appreciates the view?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I don’t think he knows what he’s looking at. But I don’t think you want to risk him biting you in the arse once you get loud.”

“Fair point.”

Louis pats his hip. “I’ll get you your clothes.” He steps around Harry and grabs the blanket, wrapping it around his waist before making a quick dash for the utility room where Harry’s clothes are in the dryer, waiting to be worn again. It’s a shame Harry has to get dressed, but Louis wants to function like – well…perhaps not a proper human being. But he does want to function properly, and maybe eventually sit down with Harry and talk. 

He grabs Harry’s clothes, putting his coat to the side for now, and is just about to walk back to the kitchen when he hears a yelp, Puck’s startled responding bark, and the now far-too-familiar sound of glass breaking on the kitchen tiles. Louis groans internally, bundles everything up in his arms, and steps out into the corridor.

“Harry,” he calls out, “I swear to God, can you stop breaking my –”

But Louis doesn’t finish that sentence. He freezes in the doorway to the kitchen and his gaze falls onto Harry, who is still butt-naked and now with a broken mug of tea at his feet,  his body pressed to the counter, grabbing it so hard his arms are shaking. And only a second later, when Louis follows Harry’s line of sight, he understands the cause of Harry’s shock, because of course, showcasing once again the worst timing one could possibly possess in this or any world, there is someone sitting on his fridge, dark eyes focused on Harry with eerie precision and tension. 

Louis just can’t catch a fucking break. He sighs audibly, which isn’t enough to turn any attention whatsoever back on him, and grabs the broom he’d used earlier to quickly sweep up the worst of the shards at Harry’s feet. Poking Harry’s arms, he shoves the clothes against Harry’s chest and waits for him to snap out of it. Harry fumbles, but he manages not to drop his things, staring at Louis with wide eyes before turning back towards the…not-person sitting on the fridge. 

It’s probably best to just get this over with. “Harry,” he begins the rather unusual introduction, “meet Zayn. Zayn, stop being a creep.” All-too-familiar dark eyes bore into Louis’, and sharp, pointy nails that make those spindly hands look like claws drum against the fridge. “Don’t deny it,” he says, and turns his attention back to Harry. 

Harry’s mouth is hanging open, and Louis distractedly wonders how close  _ he _ is to losing hold of his sanity. He blinks at Louis, then looks at Zayn, before his fluttering gaze lands on Louis once more. 

“I – I saw him last night,” Harry sputters in disbelief.

“I know.”

“And is he… I mean how –” He shakes his head, probably in a feeble attempt to clear his thoughts. “These marks…is he one of  _ them _ ? Then how can he be here?”

There’s something stuck in Louis’ throat and he has to clear it before speaking up again, but it still stings a little. “Technically yes, but um…” He isn’t quite sure how to put this, glances up at Zayn, whose expression hasn’t changed even minimally, which is to be expected, really. Louis has never seen his face do as much as twitch. It’s only been recently that he thinks he’s figured it out. “I think he was – like me. A changeling. A long time ago. Which is why he can come here and kind of…travel between both worlds. I guess. Like, I don’t know for sure. He doesn’t talk much. I mean, it’s not really talking, actually.”

Harry blinks. “What do you mean?”

Louis sighs internally. This is another thing that sounds less crazy in his head, and pretty wacky when he eventually says it out loud. “Well. It’s not that he, like…talks. Not out loud, at least. It’s more – in my head. Not words, more like – sounds.” He groans, and rubs a frustrated hand over his face. “I know it sounds crazy,” he adds when he sees that Harry still looks absolutely gobsmacked. 

“No, I mean,” Harry fumbles to assure him, and they’re both standing there like idiots, undressed and clutching clothes and a blanket like that’s perfectly acceptable attire for a kitchen. “It’s just – a lot to take in.”

There’s an apology on the tip of Louis’ tongue, but he swallows it back down, because this is really something he can’t be blamed for. It isn’t exactly how he’d choose to communicate if it were up to him. And it had taken him a long fucking while to get used to it as well. Now it’s practically second nature to him, Zayn just appearing however and whenever he pleases, in no real pattern, and disappearing again just as suddenly, like he’s doing now. One moment, he’s eyeing Louis and Harry with wakeful and sharp eyes and the next – he’s just gone. 

It takes perhaps another two seconds, and then the back door flies open and slams shut again. 

“Right,” Louis comments helplessly, holding onto the blanket like a lifeline. “You want toast?”

  
  
  


Louis ends up feeding most of his breakfast-slash-lunch to Puck, who is sitting on his feet under the table to put himself between Louis and Harry. He can tell that his dog doesn’t appreciate Harry’s presence in general, and he appreciates it even less in his living space, so Louis focuses his attention on Puck, scratches that spot behind his ears that makes his right leg thump the floor repeatedly. 

Harry is quiet, picking at his own slice of toast and staring into his cup of tea that has sure gone cold by now. He looks deep in thought, and Louis doesn’t blame him. It’s a lot to process. Perhaps it’s even too much to process. Nearly drowning, finding Louis’ Nan’s…workspace, for the lack of a better word, and finding out that his ex-boyfriend isn’t human and sometimes shares his house with someone who isn’t human either…

At least he knows. And in spite of how it happened, Louis is kind of glad and relieved that Harry knows. It’s such a big weight off his shoulders, and maybe that’s selfish, because Harry doesn’t appear relieved at all, but at least now they’re finally at the point where both of them have all their cards on the table. And Louis hopes that means that Harry can make a rational, informed decision about what he wants to do. That will most likely be him going back to London to pursue a career and life far away from all this madness, but at least that way they’ll both have closure. 

When another fifteen minutes have passed in absolute silence, Puck starting to drool onto his jeans, Louis clears his throat.

“Do you want more tea?”

Harry doesn’t reply. There’s a fine line between his brows and he’s looking straight ahead like he hasn’t even heard what Louis has said. Louis waits for a beat before he sighs and pushes his chair back. Puck huffs and lifts his arse off the ground, trotting after Louis when he heads over to heat up the kettle again. 

Frost patterns cover almost the entire window behind the sink, obscuring the view of the equally wintery garden, where a significant amount of snow is sticking to the ground, possibly ten to eleven inches already. And that’s…that’s a lot. It’s been heavily snowing for hours, but ten inches and a blocked road seem a little bit excessive. Although, Louis doesn’t want to consider that there might be anything unnatural about that. They can’t change the fucking weather. That’s just – impossible. 

He pokes Puck’s cold nose with a soft smile when it presses against his hip, before he squeezes too much Fairy into the sink and turns on the tap. It splutters like the showerhead had spluttered earlier, and it takes at least a minute to warm up. While Louis waits, he decides to switch his washing up liquid brand. He used to like the irony of it, but it’s not so funny anymore. 

Harry’s silence is also starting to freak him out a little. He can’t quite imagine what it’s like to be bombarded with things that were supposed to be nothing but fairy tales and folklore, to realise that there is far more to stories that are meant to scare small children. Louis might not have known the full extent of his heritage, but he remains convinced that it had been in his bones, and growing up, he’d experienced enough to realise that there was a world different and separate from the one he lived in. 

And now, Louis knows that he doesn’t fit into either. 

He swallows around the sting in his throat and washes suds off a plate, places it on the drying rack, and turns to the next one. Mechanically, he cleans and dries all his dishes and puts them away, the clattering interrupting the silence gripping this room. Suppressing a yawn, he grips the counter and allows himself a moment to watch the snowflakes fall, almost golf ball-sized it seems, and coming down in quick succession. According to the weather report he’d pulled up on his phone earlier, it’s supposed to keep snowing for at least another two days, if they’re lucky with intervals. At one point, Louis probably needs to get a shovel and clear his far-too-long driveway. If it does indeed keep going like this, it will take him hours. 

“Can you do magic?”

Louis startles and turns his head so quickly he feels dizzy for a moment. “What?”

“Magic,” Harry repeats, looking like he can’t quite believe he’s actually asking that. 

Louis actually can’t believe it either. “This isn’t Harry Potter, mate.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I know that. It’s just – you said they put a spell on you? To make you…to make you look like this? Wouldn’t you call that magic?”

Louis bites his lips, chews on them for a moment. Technically, Harry is right. “Honestly,” Louis still replies, “I’ve not really given it much thought.”

“Haven’t you?” Harry’s expression turns incredulous. “Aren’t you curious? I mean, that’s definitely something supernatural. And you say that – Zayn…he talks to you in your head? I don’t think magic sounds too far-fetched. And yeah, I know it’s not Harry Potter and maybe it’s not talking to snakes, but haven’t you ever…done something? Even accidentally?”

Louis doesn’t know why Harry is so interested, why he’d ask so many questions when he’s sure to leave anyway, but maybe it just comes with the profession. Maybe Harry is already typing out an article in his head. He knows he’s being cruel, unreasonably so, because deep down he’s sure Harry isn’t thinking much about his article at this point. At least, Louis hopes it’s slipped his mind for now.

Still, Louis isn’t about to tell him that sure, he’s done plenty of things that are pretty questionable in retrospect, even though he’d barely noticed at the time. Most things he can’t even remember, because he’d been so young, and maybe that’s why it had happened more frequently. Perhaps he just outgrew…whatever the hell that was. 

He’d made his Nan’s hydrangeas bloom in February when he’d been about four years old, simply by yearning for some colour in their monotonous garden. A few months later, he’d sleepwalked into the garden and kept doing so for days, sleeping outside until dawn, until his Nan had found him on the sixth morning (she’d made sure to lock his door for weeks afterwards). At six, he’d told her that one of their juniper trees was in pain, and his grandmother had discovered a fungus growing all over its roots only days later.

So yeah – he’s done stuff that might be classed as supernatural, but Louis hasn’t wasted much time exploring that side of him. It’s fizzled out, anyway. Mostly, at least.

“Remember that ficus I kept in my bedroom?” Harry suddenly speaks up again, pulling Louis out of his own head, drumming onto the table’s surface with his fingertips. 

“The one Johnny threw up on?”

Harry snorts. “That one. It never really recovered from that until…until I went home for reading week, remember? And I gave it to you to look after, and – and when I got back, it was fine. I think it even looked better than before.”

Louis pushes off the counter, sinks back onto his chair. “Right.”

“Whatever it is,” Harry continues, “it’s probably tied with the moors, right? Like, Paganism, and you mentioned the Picts, that they were here at some point as well. Celtic mythology is all tied up with nature, so it’s probably safe to assume that whatever magic there is, it’s tied to it as well.” He pauses, and looks at Louis so intently that Louis feels like he never put on clothes in the first place. “It’s probably got something to do with you feeling so ill after a while when you’re not here. Don’t you think?”

“Sure.” He chews on his lips. It’s not exactly making him feel uncomfortable but – okay, maybe it does make him feel uncomfortable, even though Louis can’t put a finger on why that is. It’s never been a particular goal of his to figure out all the technicalities, and he guesses that’s one of the reasons they’re in this dilemma in the first place, but it’s like a mental block in his head that doesn’t allow him to really sit down and think about it without coming close to a panic attack. 

And however curious Harry is about everything, he’s still aware enough to notice Louis squirming. “Sorry,” he says and blinks. “I don’t mean to, like…steamroll ahead like that. It’s probably – it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s fine,” Louis says, even though he doesn’t even want to say it. It just slips out, a knee-jerk reaction, so he stops, clears his throat. Drops his hands into his lap to knead at his slightly bruised knuckles. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just – I’ve never really talked about it. At all.”

He can only gauge Harry’s reaction from the stunned silence that might last a minute; maybe it just feels like it though. After a while, Harry asks, “at all? Not even Liam? I thought he knew.”

“He does know,” Louis replies. “In some ways. He knows in the same way the other villagers know about it. Because, I mean, I just showed up out of nowhere one day, right? And this place is so small. People know the birthday of their neighbours’ cat. So – they all know. We just…don’t talk about it.”  

“Okay,” Harry says, and Louis guesses he’s nodding in understanding. “Okay, I get that. Do you want me not to talk about it either? Because you just need to tell me.”

Louis shrugs half-heartedly. Puck walks up next to him, puts his head in his lap and nudges his hand, wanting more attention. “I’m not sure. And like, I know it’s probably fascinating from your perspective, and I can’t blame you for wanting to know stuff, but – it’s just been a rough couple of weeks. For everyone here. Having to avoid questions and ignoring journalists and dodging the police…”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Louis waves him off, scratches his dog’s ears, and concentrates on the way his fur feels beneath his fingers. 

“Yeah but, I was asking questions as well. Not only you. I didn’t mean to be invasive.”

Louis looks up at Harry worrying his lower lip. “It’s literally your job, you dweeb. You didn’t know. It’s fine.”

Harry shakes his head. “But I know now,” he insists. “And I’m sorry. I’m not – I mean, I won’t write the article, if you don’t want me to. I don’t want to make anyone more uncomfortable.”

He would do it. That’s when Louis knows Harry is telling the truth when he says that he would refuse to write anything if Louis just asked for it. It’s very tempting to do it, but he guesses that Harry might get into a lot of trouble if he comes back with nothing and refuses to write anything at all. 

“Nah, just – leave some things out, okay? I’m sure you’ve got a deadline as well.”

“I do,” Harry concedes, “but I sent snippets and…I was going to call Nick anyway.”

“Right. I’m sure you’re expected back in London.” He doesn’t want to sound bitter, but Louis can’t help but wonder if there’s an edge to his voice too obvious for Harry to miss.

“That’s actually why I wanted to call Nick,” Harry says, for some reason cautiously. “I’m supposed to go back any day now, preferably with the finished article. But I thought – I thought I could stay, for a bit? I mean, I’ve got some holiday leftover that I need to use up anyway, and I thought, only if it’s okay with you, that I could, you know…stay.”

Louis guesses he should feel surprised. But he’s just stunned. “You want to stay. Here.”

“I get it if you don’t want me here,” Harry is quick to reply, “but I wanted to offer, I guess. Because – I want to help you figure this out, or at least be there for you, if you’d let me.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. It’s such a benign thing to say, in a way, but it feels massive nonetheless, especially when he recalls that a mere day ago, they were practically fighting, still lying to each other, still hurting each other, and Louis was so ready to never speak to Harry again. And now Harry is offering to – what? 

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Harry tells him instantly. His right hand twitches like he’s desperate to reach out. “You don’t need to tell me now. I wasn’t going to call Nick until tomorrow anyway. Please take your time. But – I just wanted to let you know. That I’m here if you want me to be.”

And what the hell is Louis supposed to do with that? He gets that he’s not supposed to do anything, not for now, but he can’t quite wrap his head around this. He genuinely believed Harry would take his first chance to get away from him and Rosedale Abbey and all its strange inhabitants. And apparently Louis has been so consumed by his own misplaced paranoia that he completely misread Harry’s mindset and intentions. 

A small, nagging part of his brain whispers that he’s misread Harry before, but Louis actually doesn’t think he has. He’d felt slightly uneasy around Harry simply because he’d suspected that Harry was hiding his true intentions, and that suspicion had proven to be correct. But since finding out, Louis severely doubts he can accredit the stirring in his chest and belly to anything other than his own undiminished and unfiltered feelings for Harry.

 

 

 

Louis doesn’t give Harry a reply, and they spend the rest of the afternoon in companionable silence. After Louis finally puts fresh sheets on his bed, they settle down on it and watch the few episodes of  _ Friends _ Louis illegally downloaded ages ago while it slowly but steadily gets dark. The sun sets so early this time of year, and usually, it tends to be pitch black by five o’clock at the latest. But the heavy blanket of almost unnaturally white snow that is covering every inch out there captures even the most miniscule amount of light, seemingly reflecting in tenfold and dipping the garden outside Louis’ window into an eerie, icy glow. 

At quarter to six, they get ready to leave. Louis gives Harry an extra jumper and a coat that’s too big on him anyway, as well as some mittens and a hat, because it hasn’t ceased to snow; heavy flakes falling from the sky and clouds so low they’re laying over the moorland plateau like a tablecloth. He puts Puck on his leash just in case, not wanting him to wander off when the roads aren’t cleared and the river nearly indistinguishable. 

Harry pulls a face when they step outside, already calf-deep in snow, his flimsy sneakers probably soaked through and wet in an instant. And to be honest, Louis’ old hiking boots might be slightly more suited to this weather, but they aren’t particularly waterproof either. Even Puck looks like he’d rather be anywhere other than out in the snow, tail hanging low and ears pressed to his skull, looking at Louis with the most pitiful expression he’s ever donned. 

It’s a slow journey, to say the least. Usually, it takes ten minutes, maybe fifteen tops, to walk to the Inn from Louis’ house, but today, Louis guesses it takes that long just to get to the end of his driveway, the snow deep and the ground it lies on frozen and slippery. Puck snuffs and sneezes, nose twitching where it’s all white, like he’d dipped it in icing sugar, and next to him, Louis can hear Harry’s teeth clatter quietly. Their arms bump with every step, close but not quite holding onto each other as they trudge ahead. 

Louis thinks his face might already be frozen, snowflakes melting on his frigid cheeks, and he guesses he should be grateful that it’s not storming as well. The wind is harsh, but it’s not whipping around his head just yet. When the river comes into view, barely distinguishable, its edges frozen, he feels Harry go stiff beside him. Without a second thought, Louis reaches for his gloved hand and squeezes. He tries to smile when Harry’s eyes flicker to his face, but he can’t move his lips.

Even parting them to say, “it’ll be fine”, takes a lot of effort. It’s not that he isn’t feeling rather queasy all of a sudden. Because there’s a significant amount of unease swirling in his belly when he looks at the old, brittle wooden bridge, weighed down with snow and barely visible.

“Sorry,” Harry says. “Stupid to feel terrified, isn’t it?”

Louis shakes his head. “It’s not. But we’ll be fine. Just a few steps and we’ll be on the other side.” At least Louis hopes so. 

He pulls Puck closer to his side, squeezing Harry’s hand a second time. The first step onto the bridge makes his heart jump, and it doesn’t just drop back down again with the second, but stays up in his throat. The bridge groans under their weight and part of Louis wants to dash forward, but he’s also aware of how slippery the wooden planks are beneath all that snow.

The river is gurgling, dragging frozen chunks of snow with it, and Harry is gripping his hand so tightly Louis can feel his bones grating against each other. He clenches his teeth, keeps his eyes focused ahead and not looking at his feet and although it probably only lasts mere seconds, the time it takes for them to get to the other side feels like half an infinity to Louis. Once he’s set foot on solid ground again, his heart painfully drops back to its rightful spot. Louis tries not to wince. 

Next to him, Harry nearly doubles over, letting go of Louis’ hand only to put both of his on his knees, bending over and exhaling a long, shaky breath. It makes him cough, gulp in more air and suddenly, he lets out a barking laugh that makes Louis flinch. 

“Fucking hell,” Harry wheezes, shaking his head, his damp curls moving from side to side. “Thought I’d piss myself there.”

“Well,” Louis can’t help but comment, “it would certainly warm you up.”

Harry turns his head towards him, cheeks red and wet. There are snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes, and one sitting on the tip of his nose. Louis represses the urge to thumb it away. “That’s disgusting.”

“You said it,” Louis shrugs and moves to let Puck off his leash. Now that they’re across the bridge, he’s not as worried anymore. Puck darts off immediately, stretching his legs and probably looking for a place to do his business. He leaves a white cloud behind him.

Harry pokes his tongue out but otherwise doesn’t move, perhaps not quite trusting his limbs yet, perhaps needing another moment to quench the unease that had come with being near the river again. They both nearly drowned in that thing; Louis doesn’t blame him. Which is why he can’t quite explain why he crouches down while Harry is distractedly wiping moisture off his face, forms a rough sphere in his hands, and presses it right against Harry’s neck. 

Harry’s subsequent yelp is almost comical. His eyes go wide in shock as he attempts to scramble away, but he loses his balance. He doesn’t fall into the snow face first, but it’s a close call, and he manages to catch himself on outstretched arms that buckle only a fraction of a second later. He’s lying half on his front and half on his side, eyes frantically searching for Louis as he splutters. 

Louis pokes his tongue out in return, and continues down the road. He doesn’t expect Harry to get up as fast as he does, what with him being a bit of a safety hazard even on dry, even ground, and he certainly doesn’t expect Harry to come hurtling at him at full speed, crashing into his back and sending both of them forward and into the snow. 

This time, it’s Louis who yelps, but it’s mostly swallowed up by him likely swallowing a handful of snow. It’s cold, it’s fucking freezing, and so fucking wet already. It hurts his face and his hands, and yet for some reason, for a moment, Louis can’t move, which might have something to do with Harry being a strangely warm weight on his body. 

He curses and spits out icy particles and what might be some twigs before elbowing Harry in the side. Harry rolls off with a cackle, and he keeps fucking laughing, so Louis – even though they’re both far too old for this – grabs another handful and throws it his way. 

“Fucker,” Louis spits, but he doesn’t really mean it. He really should have meant it though, because a second later, Harry’s retaliating; only narrowly missing thanks to Louis’ quick reflexes. 

Louis slips a few times as he attempts to get back on his feet, but fortunately, he’s still quicker than Harry, giving him enough time to kick some more snow in his direction before taking off towards the Inn as quickly as he can, which isn’t very quick at all. Another snowball hits him right between the shoulder blades when he’s barely ten yards away. Louis turns around and ducks just in time to avoid another load aimed at his face. 

Harry is sitting there, grinning like a devious child and Louis – well. Louis simply can’t have that. 

He bends down, grabs two handfuls, and hurls them at Harry’s sitting form, both hitting his chest but disintegrating instantly because the damn snow is too damn powdery. Louis cusses and isn’t quick enough with the next load, giving Harry the opportunity to scramble to his feet and throw another ball at him. It’s pulverised as soon as it hits Louis’ shoulder, making even more snow slip down the back of his coat and subsequently his jumper. 

“Shit, that’s fucking freezing,” he swears under his breath, but he’s wet all over at this point, so he decides to get on with it, sending another salvo Harry’s way. “Give up, Styles!” Louis calls out, keeping his eyes on Harry as he fills his hands again. “You can’t win!”

“We’ll see about that,” Harry grins at him. The next snowball hits Louis’ knee almost at the same time that Louis manages to get Harry’s sternum. He has better aim, that can’t be contested, but Harry’s got a surprising strength behind his throws and Louis wouldn’t be surprised if next to yoga, Harry regularly engages in bench pressing. It certainly fucking feels like that, he thinks as he rubs his knee. But maybe there was just some ice hidden in there. 

It doesn’t take long for Louis to feel slightly out of breath, the dodging and throwing both tearing at his body, which is still recovering from nearly drowning and dragging Harry all the way from the river to his own bedroom. Louis isn’t one to give up, though, so they keep going for far longer than they should. At least it warms him up, his cheeks now feeling hot against the snowflakes that touch his face. 

It’s Harry who eventually calls out for a truce, entirely soaked and panting heavily, his breath leaving white tufts in the dark air surrounding them. Louis nods, having completely forgotten about the time, and the fact that everyone is expecting them for dinner. But he’s also really fucking exhausted, having tired himself out thoroughly, so Louis can’t help but sit down first and then lie back, looking up at the dense clouds covering the entire sky. 

He hears the snow crunching and a few beats later, Harry appears in his peripheral vision. He lowers himself down, knees on either side of Louis’ thighs, and Louis doesn’t move. He still doesn’t move when Harry stretches over the length of his body, elbows up by Louis’ ears, making his breath catch in his throat. Louis knows that technically, they’re both drenched and very likely to catch pneumonia unless they don’t get dry soon, but he can’t help but feel warm when their bodies touch, when he gets to refamiliarise himself with the sensation of Harry’s weight pressing him down.

And Louis also can’t help heat zinging down his spine when Harry brushes snowflakes off his brow and slowly but determinedly leans down to press their icy lips together.

  
  
  


Puck is loitering around the car park when they finally make it to the Inn and he starts yapping once they catch up to him, wagging his tail for a few seconds before running up to the front door, eager to get inside. To be fair, Louis is also very eager to warm up, get some food in his belly, but he’s also starting to feel mildly anxious as he opens the door and allows warm light to flood out into the open, Puck already weaselling past his legs. It’s just that Louis’ lips hurt a little, and not from the cold, and he thinks they might be a bit swollen, perhaps even obviously so. And, glancing over at Harry…he doesn’t look much better. 

The front room is completely deserted, Puck having left a trail of melting snow on the carpet, and Louis takes off his hat, shakes it out, and wrings it in his clammy hands until it drops onto the floor. Next to him, Harry pulls a face as he peels off his gloves. Louis can hear voices from the kitchen at the back, and he guesses it’s best if they go straight through. There’s no use hanging up their coats out here, because they’re never going to dry, but they can probably lay them out around the tiled stove. 

“Sorry we’re late,” he calls out into the room at large even before he’s properly set foot in it, and four heads instantly turn around to face him.

The large table in the middle has been set, a big pot with lid already sitting on top of it. Geoff is sitting at the head, a newspaper open in front of him, and Liam and Niall are sitting on either side, both nursing pints. Karen is at the stove and she turns to him, hands on her hips, and levels him with an unimpressed look. 

“I expected you to be here at six,” she says.

Louis has a quick look at the flashing digits on the microwave, which tells him it’s nearly seven. “Yeah, um…we got – distracted.”

“Distracted,” Karen echoes, raising her brows and walking up to Louis. “Oh dear, why do you boys look like you were rolling around in the snow?”

Behind her, Niall inhales his beer. Karen looks over her shoulder at him pounding against his chest, laughing and coughing at the same time, then she turns back, eyes flickering to Harry and then settling again on Louis, who can feel heat rising in his cheeks. Then it clicks.

“Oh my,” Karen says, and awkwardly clears her throat. “Well. What’re you still standing here for, dripping all over me floor? I just mopped this morning. Give me that,” and she nearly wrestles Louis out of his jacket, bundling it up in her arms. Harry looks a bit stunned, but he quickly takes off his coat as well and hands it to her. “Put your shoes by the oven, dears, and sit down. Liam, get them some tea.”

Liam, very much used to being bossed around by his mum, gets up without a peep. Niall, however, has stopped coughing, but his face is still red and he waggles his eyebrows obscenely at them when they sit down opposite him.

“Shut up, Niall,” Louis mutters, but obviously not quiet enough. Karen pinches his ear on her way back to the tile oven after having put their coats on hangers. 

“Don’t tell that lovely lad to shut up, young man,” she scolds him. “He and Liam spent three hours on the farm today, helping Hamish and Thomas herd all the sheep into the barn. And after that, he peeled all the potatoes for me shepherd’s pie.”

“Well, he’s Irish,” Louis can’t help but comment. “He knows all about potatoes…”

It earns him another unimpressed glare, but Louis can hear Harry chuckle next to him, so he doesn’t actually care. Liam returns with two steaming mugs and his gaze is loaded when he hands Louis one of them, telling him that Liam’s not forgotten what Louis said about extenuating circumstances on the phone earlier that day. Louis wishes it had slipped his mind, because now he can probably prepare himself to be pulled aside and questioned after dinner. 

“So I guess you made up then?” Niall asks after a moment when everyone’s settled down, the others pointedly pretending not to listen, but very much listening. 

Louis feels Harry’s eyes on him, and he turns his head to meet his gaze. Harry’s lips twitch.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess you could say that.”   
  
  
  


Dinner consists of Karen’s incredible shepherd’s pie and a generous serving of pear crumble for dessert. Louis hasn’t really eaten much in the past couple of weeks and he’s surprised to find his appetite returning at full force, gobbling down more food than he’s had in the whole last week under Karen’s watchful gaze. He remains mostly quiet, just like Harry, content to listen to Niall, Liam, and Geoff talking about recent football results.

Once everyone is finished, Harry and Niall jump to clear the table and help Karen with the dishes, and after a silent exchange with Geoff and Liam, Louis gets up to follow them out the back door. It’s freezing out there, but Louis doubts they’ll be long, and the roof extends out enough to shield them off from the snow still falling, most of the terraced plot entirely covered. 

Louis rubs his forearms and takes the bottle of beer Geoff fishes out of one of the crates that are stacked along the wall. He opens it with a lighter he finds in his back pocket and tosses the cap into an empty flowerpot. Liam leans back against the closed door and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“Right,” he breaks the silence, looking at Louis with intent. “What the hell happened last night?”

Louis doesn’t smoke that much these days, the packet he bought in Pickering probably still half full in his bedroom somewhere, but he itches for a cigarette now, if only to give his hands something to do. Instead, he takes a sip of his beer, fingers nearly sticking to the icy bottle.

“Harry got pulled into the river,” Louis cuts to the chase immediately. He’s freezing his arse off and his feet are still wet, and he just wants to get this over with. Liam and Geoff’s eyes widen simultaneously. “Fortunately, I’d just caught up to him. So I, well, I jumped in and pulled him out again. ‘s why he didn’t come back here. I had to practically defrost him.”

“Fucking hell,” Liam says, arms dropping to the side again, and staring at Louis in what can only be described as shock.

Geoff remains composed, heavy hand landing on Louis’ shoulder, but his forehead is drawing deep lines. “Are you all right, Louis?”

He takes another sip, suppresses the shudder that curses through him as the cold liquid slides down his throat. “I’m fine. Just look like a Picasso from the neck down. But that’ll fade,” he says and doesn’t mention that there are other marks on his skin that will probably not fade with time.

“And what did you tell Harry?” Liam asks, bending down to fish for another beer. He looks like he needs it. 

“I had no choice but to tell him,” Louis replies curtly. “He’s not an idiot. Saw the damn thing and saw some other stuff as well, so…” He trails off and makes an unspecific motion with his free hand. 

Geoff squeezes his shoulder. “How did your boy take it?”

Instinctively, Louis wants to deny that Harry is his boy, but he guesses that by now, that might count as lying, and he’s really got other things to worry about. “Surprisingly well. I mean, maybe it’s not sunk in yet. He offered to stay here, earlier, to help out and such.” Louis shrugs. “Don’t think he quite understands what he’s getting into.” But it’s not like any of them get that either. “Anyway,” he adds, very much ready to go back inside, “that’s where we’re at now.”

Liam looks at him. “Do you want him to stay?”

Louis doesn’t want to have this conversation when he hasn’t really figured it out himself. He does want Harry to stay, reckons he couldn’t bear to say goodbye to him a second time. But he doesn’t want Harry to think he’s got to stay out of obligation to Louis, or even worse, because he feels sorry for Louis, and maybe Harry doesn’t even realise it himself, but – how is Louis supposed to know?

He ends up shrugging, then nurses his beer for a moment before reaching past Liam and grabbing the door handle, effectively cutting off their conversation. Once he’s back in the kitchen, Liam and Geoff staying back to undoubtedly confer for a while longer, he sees Harry at the sink, drying the plates Niall is handing to him, his hair tied up to keep it out of his face. He turns when he sees Louis enter, sending him a smile before getting back to the task. Louis guesses Karen is putting the leftover into the freezer in the pantry, so he walks over to Harry and Niall and starts to put away the clean dishes.

“So…” Niall speaks up eventually over the sound of running water and clanking tableware. “What did you get up to?” What Niall reckons they got up to is very much implied.

Louis rolls his eyes. “We talked, Niall. And this time even like civilised – people,” and he has to suppress a smile when he catches Harry’s knowing look and accompanying smirk. 

“Talking, eh? Is that –”

“It’s not a euphemism, Niall,” Harry interrupts him. “We did talk. Was long overdue as well. Putting all the cards on the table and such.”

Niall nods, switching off the tap and turning towards them, hip against the sink. “So all this tension I’m feeling is of a sexual nature, and not the we’re-gonna-yell-more-and-slam-doors kind of tension, right?”

Louis flushes. “Jesus, Nialler –”

“What?” Niall shrugs, attempting to look innocent, but his twitching lips give him away. “Am I supposed to pretend that those bloody walls in halls weren’t paper thin and you guys didn’t go at it every night like –”

Karen clears her throat from the doorway and Niall snaps his mouth shut. Louis’ face is flaming and for a moment, he hopes the ground will simply open up and swallow him, especially because Harry, the traitor, is pressing his palm to his lips to muffle his laughter, judging by the way his shoulders are shaking. Louis’ glad he finds it funny, but Harry also didn’t have to sit through Karen giving him and Liam a very awkward safe sex talk when he was fifteen. Louis hadn’t been able to look Karen in the eye for at least a week. The sheer memory of it makes him cringe. 

Thankfully, they get on with tidying the kitchen, Liam and Geoff coming in ten minutes later with another round of beers, faces red from the cold as they settle back around the table. Puck comes up from his spot in front of the tiled stove to slobber a bit more onto Louis’ jeans, and Louis zones out only moments into the conversation the others pick up almost instantly, his fingers curling into Puck’s fur. His dog’s head is a comforting, warm weight on his thigh and Louis guesses he gets a bit lost in his own head for a while there, staring at a spot on the delicately patterned wallpaper. 

Louis thinks he can hear the snow fall outside, one thick flake after the other, caressing the ground, caressing his skin, tickling his skin, each a small spark of sensation, like tiny flashes of – not light, something else, something different, something more… His thoughts trail off, the words becoming muddled even as he thinks them. 

Something touches his hand, and Louis flinches, everything snapping back into clarity so rapidly it nearly leaves his head spinning. Louis blinks and turns his head, finds Harry with his arm outstretched and a furrow between his brows.

“Everything okay?” he says with a lowered voice, sounding worried.

“Yeah,” Louis replies. “Just – zoned out. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” Under the table, Harry reaches for his hand once more. This time, Louis lets him take it. “When should we head back? It’s getting late.”

“Oh. I thought you might want to stay here tonight.”

The line between his brows grows deeper. “Why would I want to stay here?” he asks, like it’s entirely outlandish for Louis to believe he might. Maybe it is. 

“Right,” he breathes, holding Harry’s gaze. Louis squeezes his hand. 

Inside his chest, his heart starts to beat heavily, like it’s trying very hard to remind Louis that it’s still there and that it’s about time it should be heard.

 

 

***

 

_ to be continued. _


	8. VIII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis had fallen in love with Harry at first sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently miracles do happen...
> 
> jokes aside, i am terribly sorry that this took so long. life has been absolutely mad and it's not getting much better, but i still hope that the last chapter will be much easier to write. and ah, yes, surprise! this isn't the last chapter, and i am not sure if you will be happy to hear that or not. but now i can say with certainty that it really only is one more chapter after this. this just felt like quite a coherent chapter, and lengthy as well, so i decided to extend the story instead of trying to cram everything in.
> 
> i need to say thank you and apologise in the same breath to [geeb](http://www.genuinelybelieve.tumblr.com/) and [dimples](http://www.harrysdimplesarethedeathofme.com/) for listening and for allowing me to be an absolute pain in the arse about this story that has become the bane of my existence. also geeb beta'd as always and is a gem.
> 
> rediscovered warpaint's first album writing this. really mellows you out. particularly [billie holiday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QKFw4i0jsoM). 
> 
> hope you enjoy. 
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the few original characters that float around in the background. This is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities with reality are unintended and incidental.
> 
> **WARNINGS for this chapter:** swearing, as usual. also non-graphic smut, non-graphic violence, and semi-graphic stuff to do with skin.

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

 

 

 

Louis had fallen in love with Harry at first sight. At the time, and actually for months and maybe years, he had tried to talk himself out of that, had tried to tell himself that he was being stupid and delusional, that love at first sight wasn’t a thing and that feelings like that simply couldn’t develop in an instant. 

He’d met Harry at a house party. Someone from Niall’s photography course who’d shared a narrow, run-down terrace with four other first years had invited them over on a Thursday night, and Louis had been reluctant to go because he’d had an early lecture the following day. Niall had bribed him with a bottle of Sainsbury’s own gin that had smelled like Mr. Muscle, and Louis had declined once, twice, and probably another time, but somehow, he’d ended up going anyway. 

It’d been freezing cold that evening, so it had been a relief to step into the lounge that was full of people and body heat. A typical student flat with mismatched furniture and dirty carpets, their first dozen photos pinned to the far wall with undoubtedly many more to follow. Niall had pulled him into the kitchen to find glasses for his sodding gin, which then proved to be a challenge, dishes overflowing in the sink and open crisp packets and beer bottles covering every free surface. 

Louis had contemplated just leaving right away when his eyes, scanning the room, had suddenly landed on the single most breathtaking person he’d ever seen in his entire life, and even today, he reckons he can perfectly recall the way everything around him had just – stopped. Everything else had just ceased to matter for the moment it had taken for his and Harry’s eyes to lock. 

And Louis had just known it right at that moment, even though all he’d seen of Harry had been his eyes and yet – it had been so much more than that. He’d just felt something, deep down in a place he hadn’t believed feelings could even reach, and it had sparked something inside him that had never dimmed; that had started to hurt for a while, yes, but always burning with the same intensity. 

(Looking back on it now, and allowing himself to think of himself as…as _other_ , Louis wonders if that might have had something to do with it. Him being different. Him perhaps feeling things differently. Him zeroing in on Harry because whatever was hidden inside him had seen something in Harry that couldn’t be ignored.) 

Niall had noticed the way Louis had gone still, and had wasted no time introducing him to Harry, who – as Louis was finally able to take note of – had been dressed in ripped jeans and a stained vest, curls poking out of a neon yellow beanie. His lips had been wet, pursed over a bottle of cider; his feet bare. 

Niall had left the kitchen at one point, leaving them to stare at each other in silence. Louis hadn’t been able to tell how much time had passed between him entering the kitchen and him and Harry suddenly softly smiling at each other, but somehow, it had led to them sharing Harry’s cider in the kitchen and then heading upstairs to Harry’s bedroom with a bottle of cheap wine. 

To this day, Niall thinks they’d spent that night having sex like starved men. And sure, that had followed in the morning, Harry unceremoniously shoving a bold hand down Louis’ underwear before the sun had even properly come up. But actually, they’d spent most of the night talking about – things. Filling the non-existent space between them with words, emptying that bottle of awful rosé until it had clouded their senses, but not enough to keep them from gravitating towards one another like magnets. 

Louis was stupid when he thought he could just run away and leave Harry behind and forget all about him, and he’s fucking insane for believing he could do that a second time. 

It’s quiet; quiet like it had been that first night six years ago. Only now they’re in Louis’ bedroom, Puck deposited in his dog bed in the kitchen, and Harry has his back to him, facing the unmade bed instead. Louis’ socks are wet, and so are his jeans, all the way up to his knees. He feels…nervous, in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time, because it’s a good kind, it’s the anticipating kind, it’s the kind that makes his heart jump and his spine tingle. 

Leaning back against the door, he effectively shuts it, and it seems like the sound kicks Harry into motion. He pulls his jumper over his head and lets it drop to the floor, and the t-shirt underneath follows instantly. Harry peels his jeans down his legs, along with his equally wet socks, then hooks his thumbs into his underwear and allows that to slide down as well. 

Louis feels hot. He’s tried to avoid it before, but now his gaze is automatically drawn to Harry’s middle, to his quickly filling cock bobbing between his legs, hanging heavy and just like Louis remembers. 

Fuck, Louis hasn’t had sex in _five years_. He’s not slept with anyone since Harry. Since that Wednesday afternoon before he’d left, when they’d gone back to halls for lunch and ended up skipping their afternoon seminar, instead fucking on Louis’ creaky single bed and making use of the empty flat, allowing themselves to get carried away, to get loud and unrestrained, making the headboard bang against the thin walls. 

It’s been so long that Louis _hurts_ with how much he wants this. 

Harry’s chest expands with every breath he takes and he’s got to still be a little cold after trudging back from the Inn, but somehow, his skin is starting to glisten in the dim light coming from Louis’ bedside lamp. Louis sags back against the door, his legs moments from giving out, but from one second to the next, Harry has him pressed against solid wood. His head bangs almost painfully against the door, but his resulting gasp is licked up by Harry’s tongue and Louis is kissing him back before he’s even registering it. 

His fingers slip on Harry’s inexplicably sweaty skin, trying to hold onto him as he feels his knees starting to buckle, Harry turning his bones into jelly when he drags his teeth languidly over Louis’ lower lip. 

“Fucking hell,” Louis mutters, allowing Harry to push his jumper up to his armpits, one hand holding it there, the other trailing down to the small of his back, skimming the waistband of his jeans. Harry gets distracted groping his arse and grinding against Louis’ hips, so Louis takes matters into his own hands and surprises himself by pulling his jumper all the way off and throwing it to the side, momentarily interrupting their kiss. 

“God,” Harry breathes wetly against his cheek, following the line of Louis’ jeans to where they’re buttoned, “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much.” 

Louis feels indescribably turned on, but also suddenly choked up, so he grabs Harry’s face to smash their lips back together, because this isn’t the right time to start crying again. He’s missed Harry too, more than he could ever articulate, but Louis has also missed touching him, has been craving Harry’s touch in return and absolutely starved for the weight of Harry’s body and the feel of him and the smell of him and the way it all encompasses Louis so completely. 

He gets lost in it, so much so that he barely notices that Harry has worked quickly to undo his jeans until they’re already halfway down his thighs, along with his underwear, which is getting stuck on his clammy and cold skin. But neither he nor Harry has the patience to deal with that now. They both almost died, and they both know that now, and there’s simply no time to bother with Louis’ sodding jeans or with him standing a big chance of catching splinters with his arse as Harry keeps pressing him back against the door, hot pressure against his neck and hips. 

This isn’t about finesse, or about impressing the other, or in fact about anything but the release of all the tension that has been building up for years, tension and frustration and anger. It’s not even about love, but about so many other unresolved feelings Louis already feels close to boiling over. This is going to be over so embarrassingly fast, but Louis can’t begin to give a fuck about that, either.

He pants against Harry’s chin, teeth scrambling for purchase and latching on, climbing upwards to meet Harry’s waiting lips, muffling the sounds that are growing louder between them. 

Harry tries hitching up one of Louis’ legs to change the angle at which they’re rutting against each other, but his jeans are still caught around his knees and they go stumbling to the side, the doorknob digging into Louis’ side and halting their tumble. It hurts, but the pain subsides, and more than that, it is drowned out almost the instant Harry manages to push Louis’ pants down his hips. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

Louis’ head bangs against the door and Harry follows, making him start to feel like the contours of his body are beginning to blur; like his body is starting to melt into wood, legs trembling, arms twitching, fingers skimming each other’s faces, breaths hot and wet against their skin. 

Outside, it’s dark. And it’s still snowing.

 

 

Usually the house whispers. Noises sound out from every crook and corner, an infinite conversation between cobwebs and floorboards, filling Louis’ ears and mind and core. With every step, another creak tells another story, calling through too big and too empty rooms out towards the moors where twigs crack and shrubs crackle in response. 

Usually, Louis would notice. He would notice the obscure silence, the house and the moors seemingly holding their breath simultaneously in the wake of – 

But he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t pay attention to anything but sweat-slick skin sticking together where he’s straddling Harry’s tattooed hips, their bodies glistening in the murky light that comes off of Louis’ weak bedside lamp. Harry’s ribcage is still rapidly expanding and compressing and when Louis lifts his hand, limbs pleasantly aching and heavy, and places it just above Harry’s heart, he can feel it pounding strongly against his palm. 

Harry’s lips twitch despite his mouth already being curled into a wide smile; his curls spread out over the misshapen pillow, some damp and sticking to his neck and forehead. Louis’ fingers twitch with the urge to wipe them aside. 

“Hey,” Harry says, voice gruff and throaty. He tugs softly on Louis’ wrist, bringing Louis’ hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the tip of his index finger. It’s the simplest gesture, but it still causes Louis’ throat to clog up, so he doesn’t reply, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, the faint taste of salt still lingering from when he was attached to that spot just below Harry’s jaw. It’s blossoming red now, almost like a flower. 

Louis shifts. Harry’s teeth skim over his bruised lower lip from the friction, and Louis’ eyes stay glued to it for a moment before he blinks and tears himself away from the sight, leaning towards his bedside table. The packet of cigarettes he’d bought in Pickering what now seems like aeons ago is lying atop a worn paperback, and Louis grabs it, as well as the lighter that’s next to it. His fingers tremble as he reaches inside and pulls out a cigarette, bringing it up and putting it between his lips. 

He can feel Harry’s gaze on him and only a moment later, Harry’s hands take a hold of Louis’ knees, squeezing once before slowly running them up his thighs. Louis’ breath hitches and his throat feels dry when he swallows, so he tries to downplay how affected he really feels by lighting the cigarette and taking a quick but deep drag. 

Louis tips his head back, faces the ceiling, and closes his eyes, keeping the smoke inside as Harry grips his hips, fingers digging in. It’s making him feel instantly light-headed, the nicotine floating down into his lungs, Harry hardening again beneath him, thumbs circling over Louis’ hipbones hypnotically. Moving nothing but his lips, Louis blows out the smoke and opens his eyes again to watch it gather at the ceiling. 

Still feeling a bit shaky, he takes another drag and only parts his lips when he’s lowered his head again, catching Harry’s heated look. Louis allows himself a moment to just look at him; at the shining plane of his chest and stomach, his hardened nipples, the strain of the muscles in his arms because he’s holding Louis so tight. It seems surreal that this is where they are now; that against even the strongest of odds, they’ve perhaps not exactly come out the other side, but maybe something close to that. 

The smoke he blows out this time takes a moment to disperse. When it clears, Harry lets go of his leg and holds out his hand. Wordlessly, Louis hands him the cigarette, his eyes following Harry bringing it to his mouth, the glimmer at its tip intensifying as Harry’s lips close around the other end. His nostrils flare as he inhales, gaze never leaving Louis. His dick twitches.

Harry hands back the cigarette and Louis keeps it between his thumb and index finger, his hand shaking slightly and throat as dry as a stale piece of toast. He thinks he should probably drop the fag and have some water instead, maybe open a window and breathe in some air that doesn’t smell like sex. But he can’t quite bring himself to move. Actually, Louis isn’t sure if he can move more than a few inches at a time. He doesn’t really trust his legs at the moment. The persisting heat in Harry’s eyes is making him feel shaky.

It’s making him feel unhinged. 

It takes more effort than it should to rise to his knees, watching Harry’s hands slide back down onto the mattress, one of his eyebrows twitching as he tilts his head to the side and looks at Louis questioningly. Louis doesn’t respond to it, lifts himself over Harry’s outstretched legs and just barely stops his knees from buckling when his feet touch the floor, the boards creaking beneath his weight. With stiff limbs, he makes his way towards the large panelled window, ice crystals spreading out from the corners like spider webs. 

It’s still snowing so heavily that all Louis can see when he looks through the glass is a darkened mass of white. It’s dark, and he can’t quite tell what time it is. His internal clock tends to be pretty on point, so it throws him off a bit that he doesn’t know this time. Sure, he could just turn around and check the alarm clock on his bedside table, but turning around would mean coming face to face with Harry, who is undoubtedly still naked and spread out on Louis’ bed, and Louis just needs a few seconds to gather himself. 

Keeping a hold of the shrinking cigarette in his left hand, he lifts his right one to grip the window’s handle. It’s icy to the touch, but not nearly as cold as the freezing air that hits his bare skin like a sucker punch to the chest once he has pushed the window open. Powdery snow trickles down the windowsill and falls onto Louis’ feet while thick flakes start to whirl around his head, and when he breathes in deeply, it burns all the way down his throat. 

But it feels good. Strangely so, perhaps. He should be freezing his bollocks off, but instead his eyes are drawn to what truly is a slightly spooky winter wonderland. The snow is whirling wildly and the branches of the trees standing on the edge of Louis’ unkempt garden are drooping with its weight, a thick layer of white covering every surface. The hills have taken on the same colour as the sky, or perhaps it’s the other way around, bleeding into one another without any way to distinguish between the two. 

It feels a bit like being in a snow globe.

It feels a bit like everything has come to a standstill, sounds drowned out by the heavy snowfall that’s now covering the entire valley like a thick sheepskin rug, soft and fuzzy, like the edges of Louis’ mind are slowly becoming. He takes a last drag of the burnt-out cigarette and flicks it out the window, both hands now resting on the sill and automatically, his eyes drop down to his hands. Detachedly, Louis realises that the marks have spread, runes he can’t decipher curling around his hands and licking his fingertips. Snowflakes fall, melting on his still-warm skin, black lines offset by white, and he counts one, and two, and three, and – 

“Lou?” 

Harry’s raspy voice, a deep timbre that trickles down Louis’ back like warm syrup, snaps him out of what has turned into a trance in a matter of milliseconds. He blinks and turns his head, looks over his shoulder to where Harry has started to gather blankets around his naked body, because – because the window is open, and icy air is beginning to fill the room, but Louis can barely feel the cold. 

Louis can barely feel himself, something tugging at the outer layers of him, calling for his attention. 

But Harry is calling for his attention as well, red-bitten mouth and damp curls sticking to milky skin, and he’s telling Louis, “Come back to bed.” And who is Louis not to listen?

 

 

Louis doesn’t know what it is that wakes him up. But suddenly, he’s sitting up in bed, the sheets sliding off his chest along with Harry’s arm and every last bit of fatigue that had been clinging to his mind and body. Inexplicably, it’s still dark, no light shining in from outside, no ray of sun that might’ve alerted him subconsciously. 

Instead, the window is still wide open, a thin layer of snow now covering the ground right in front of it. But it appears to have finally stopped snowing. 

Louis slips out from beneath the duvet and gets to his feet, his mind wiped blank and his steps steady but languid as he makes his way towards the window. He doesn’t feel its cold, only the sensation when he steps onto the snow that’s settled on the floor beneath the window, and the goosebumps breaking out all over his naked body are a reaction to the subzero temperature that he somehow doesn’t quite register. 

When he looks ahead, far away in the distance, he can see a hint of light on the horizon, a fine line wedged between the moors and the darkened sky, and for a moment, without a single clear thought filling Louis’ head, he lets his gaze wander as a tingling feeling begins to spread through his body, starting from his fingertips and expanding quickly. It feels like it’s slowing down his heartbeat. Like it’s numbing down his body in the same breath. 

And then he sees her. 

He sees a girl standing smack dab in the middle of his lawn, a pile of snow at her feet, and even in the dark, Louis can easily distinguish the black soil that is mixed with it, tainting the otherwise pure surface. She’s dug a hole, Louis thinks absentmindedly as he takes in this surreal image. She’s dug a hole and despite the distance, he can tell that both her hands are covered in dirt, contrasting with her skin that’s practically as white as the snow her bare feet are standing on. 

It’s the little sachet, Louis remembers with a jolt; the little sachet that he’d buried in the garden after Mrs. Appleton had given it to him. And now she’s dug it up. 

Louis feels faint, like he’s a second away from passing out, when her black eyes lock with his, far too large in her heart-shaped face, cascades of strangely coloured hair falling past her shoulders and covering her body, stopping only just below her knees, little twigs and leaves and – flowers? – caught in it. Something tugs at him then. Something he can’t describe. Something he’s never felt before – an indescribable pull and an almost disturbing serenity. 

She looks at him, the small sachet in her spindly little fist turning into black dust, turning into ash, and she smiles, lips parting to reveal teeth as sharp and shiny as needles. She looks otherworldly and terrifying, ethereal and like a little nightmare, but in this moment, though Louis can’t conjure up a reason why, she looks like home. 

She lifts her arm and holds out her hand, as if for Louis to take, and he feels frozen to the spot for a minute before he suddenly can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t accept her invitation. Louis turns on his heels and makes a beeline for the door, opening it without hesitation, and he throws only a quick glance over his shoulder, sees his room and the clothes strewn about and the bed, Harry outstretched and bundled up in the duvet. 

And he can’t think of a single reason why he should stay. 

 

 

The back door closes with a thud and Louis is surrounded by ominous silence. The sky overhead is clear and speckled with stars and the sun still seems to be hiding, but is slowly creeping upwards, daybreak presiding and dipping the valley into a surreal light. In the very back of Louis’ mind, muffled and barely distinguishable, he thinks he can hear something his Nan had told him about twilight, but he can’t make out the words. He doesn’t know if it’s too quiet or if he just doesn’t understand her, but he can’t make it out. 

There’s scratching at the door, that much he can make out, but he can’t seem to process what it means. It’s not sinking in. All his senses seem to be focused on the girl standing there, entirely motionless, like a statue by Dégas. Louis takes one step towards her, and then another, and another, and suddenly she is right there and despite her small size and frail appearance, Louis feels dwarfed by her presence. 

She cocks her head. A single lilac blossom drops onto the snow. Then she takes his hand and pulls. Louis follows her without looking back. 

They leave the garden behind and walk uphill where the trees, at first densely crowding around them and dusting their heads in white, steadily shrink and diminish to give way to wide and untouched moorland. The snow has softened up the unruly terrain, rounding off all edges and concealing erratically grown heather, but it should be hard to walk, especially at the pace they’re going, especially since – as Louis very distantly realises – he isn’t wearing any shoes. He isn’t wearing any clothes either, his mind unhelpfully supplies without actually processing that fact.

But Louis doesn’t feel the icy temperatures, and he doesn’t feel the uneven ground hidden beneath the thick layer of snow digging into his feet. There isn’t any breeze touching his face either, and a distracted glance around the area makes it evident that the air seems entirely static, as if they have suddenly entered a vacuum where everything down to the very last snowflake is standing still. There isn’t any breeze, and there isn’t any sound, no groaning as snow is compressed by their steps, no audible breaths in the frozen air – no heavy beating of his own heart in his ears. 

Maybe it’s all a dream. 

She doesn’t let go of him even when they reach the plateau, keeping a surprisingly iron grip around his wrist. Small blossoms that were tangled in her hair drop onto the untouched ground with every step, giving Louis a strange flashback to the time he’d read _Hansel & Gretel_ as a child. Only this is a trail of flowers, not breadcrumbs. 

Flowers in winter, some part of his mind decides to chime in, which is decidedly strange, and the same part is also screaming for him to make a connection – but Louis loses focus just a moment later, his vision momentarily flickering, making him stumble. 

He loses his balance and falls forward, his arm slipping out of her grip, and suddenly, Louis is stretched out in the snow, almost buried by it. With a spinning head, he looks up to her and the blossoms raining down onto her feet and snow, and something inside his chest clenches, making it hard to breathe. It feels like a cold hand is reaching down his throat to shuffle everything about, not painfully so but – 

Louis sees it then – a gleaming light flickering in the distance, just over her shoulder. It seems bigger than it ever has and it’s glowing brightly, outshining the strip of light on the horizon and casting the surrounding snow into strangely green hues. It pulses like a heart and appears to grow with every thud, and when previously Louis had always wanted it to disappear, had looked at it as a bad omen, now he just wants to get closer. He wants to get closer and he’s got a feeling that this is where they’re heading. 

With newfound strength and an unexpected burst of adrenaline, Louis scrambles to his feet, still doesn’t dare to overtake her and waits for her to take the lead again, but this time Louis feels eager and determined, the pull in his chest he’d felt from time to time over the last couple of years now undeniable and obvious. It is no longer an abstract feeling he can’t make sense of, along with so many other things constantly circling around in his head. 

This is where he is supposed to go. This is where he is supposed to be. 

The light fades as soon as they reach a small formation of rocks nestled against a gentle ridge; a short fizzle and then it’s gone. The girl doesn’t turn around to see if he’s following, doesn’t hesitate for a single second before ducking and disappearing in a small gap between two stones. Its darkness beckons him, especially with morning looming and the sun climbing higher behind the clouds with every moment that passes, the static air starting to feel practically electric. Dawn is almost over, Louis realises with a jolt running through his numbed body. The window of opportunity is closing. 

The door to the other world is beginning to shut. 

With a sense of panic, Louis leaps forward. His shoulders scrape against rough, frozen stone, and a fraction of a second later, he is surrounded by absolute and unforgiving darkness.

 

 

One rainy afternoon about six years ago, Louis and Niall had watched a David Attenborough documentary about the deep sea. They’d watched the submarine film all those freaky looking creatures with antennas and their own neon lights attached to their beings. Distractedly, he’d figured he’d never see anything like that with his own eyes. 

But she’s standing there in front of him, and the runes covering her entire body – which Louis hadn’t even registered before – are alight, making her glow in the dark like a luminescent deep sea creature. It sends a shock through Louis’ system, his senses returning with a vengeance and making his entire body thrum with the strain he’s just put on it. Suddenly, he feels the ruined soles of his feet and the cold clinging to every inch of his exposed skin. It burns, his body seemingly lit on fire, and he barely gets a moment to grit his teeth and will the pain away before she and her ethereal glow are moving away from him, leaving Louis behind in darkness. 

He struggles to catch up with her, legs and feet screaming and muscles aching with every precarious step as he tries not to lose sight of her descending deeper and deeper into the earth. His hands grapple for support on the narrow and moist stone walls, overgrown with moss and sludgy to the touch, yet Louis still slips with nearly every agonising step on the uneven rocky steps that lead to a place he’s never been.

The deeper he gets, the more humid the air becomes, and he goes from freezing to sweating within a matter of minutes, moisture pearling off his hairline and cascading down his neck and shoulders, making his suddenly hypersensitive skin itch so much that he has to restrain himself from lifting a hand to drag his nails across it. It doesn’t take long for Louis to feel lightheaded and to completely lose track of how long he’s been walking or what direction he’s even heading in, disoriented because it would be pitch black without the faint glow she exudes up ahead. 

Just when Louis feels like he might pass out – from lack of oxygen, pain or sheer exhaustion, he isn’t sure – he sees another faint glow in the near distance and only a short moment later, the narrow tunnel he’s had to navigate along opens up into cave and his battered feet touch…moss? 

Damp, hard stone turns into a pillowy soft ground and now Louis can see that in between what appears to be blooming heather and shrubs are puddles of glowing water. At least, Louis _thinks_ it’s water. And as he comes to a halt and allows himself to look around and take it all in, he promptly realises that even the plants – which should not be growing in winter – are exuding a strangely coloured light, probably from absorbing the water and whatever is in it. 

Louis looks ahead again and momentarily forgets that he is hurting all over when he realizes that he can’t see the girl anymore. He walks forward, avoiding the luminescent puddles, and makes his way towards the centre of the cave, which turns out to be much larger than Louis realised at first glance, with numerous tunnels branching off in different directions. But the terrain dips towards the middle, puddles turning into small rivers that trickle over the edge of at least a dozen strangely even steps in little waterfalls, collecting in an almost unnaturally round pond in the centre. 

She’s sitting on the top step on the opposite side, on what looks like a throne of moss and more kinds of flowers than Louis can name, her long hair – which, in this light, doesn’t look much like hair anymore – intertwining with it. In her hands, cradled to her chest, she holds blooming thistles. 

Louis’ breath catches in his throat and stays there as she throws each blossom, one after the other, into the pond. Its surface vibrates with every thistle that touches it and Louis can’t tell if he has completely lost his mind, but he could swear that each time, the pond glows just a little bit brighter. As the last blossom drops down, she reaches out her arm and beckons him closer, just like she’d done in his – 

He loses his footing on the slippery stone before he can finish the thought and somehow tumbles down to the very bottom, landing face first in the pond and getting completely submerged for seconds. Instantly, his skin starts tingling, as if the water sloshing around him is fizzy. It tingles and tickles and Louis swallows a good amount of it before he manages to get on his knees and lift his head out of the water. Coughing and blinking wildly to regain his senses, Louis is glad to realise that the small pond is only a foot deep and weirdly lukewarm. 

But it’s tingling, and it’s making his skin itch. Gritting his teeth, Louis runs a hand over his face and almost flinches when he doesn’t…he doesn’t _feel_ anything. He touches his cheek and again – it’s just not _right_. Frantically, and with a growing panic, and with her deep black eyes on his form, Louis digs his nails in as hard as he can, desperate for pain to set in. So he drags his fingers diagonally across his face; right down until he reaches his jaw, but other than the strange fizzing of the water sloshing around his waist, Louis feels absolutely nothing.

He looks up at her, and perhaps the water has also messed with his eyesight, but suddenly she appears taller, limbs long and glowing and fingers skeletal, resembling willowy twigs. She cocks her head to the side, bares her teeth, and lets out a sound that doesn’t enter Louis’ ears but instead echoes right inside his head. 

It doesn’t exactly hurt, but it puts pressure on his skull from the inside, pushing outwards, and suddenly his skin seems too small, too tight for his body. Distractedly, Louis looks down at his trembling hands and twitching fingers, black spots dancing in front of his vision, and with bile rising in his throat, he sees strips of skin dangling from his nails. 

Skin he’d pulled off his face as if it were butter. 

Louis retches, but nothing comes up or out; his throat only grows tighter and tighter until he can barely breathe. His vision becomes progressively fuzzier and, coupled with the persistent itch crawling beneath his skin and the deep ache in his bones, he is barely able to notice the dozens of creatures coming out of hiding between luminescent ferns and moss-covered rocks. 

His legs can’t hold his weight anymore, and Louis falls back onto his arse, head spinning around to take in the beings that are joining them around the pond, each giving off their own distinct glow, runes alight and eyes black, teeth sharp and limbs like skinny branches. They settle on the stony steps, backs hunched over and heads tilted to the side, observing him curiously and looking…looking so much like Zayn peering at him from the top of his – 

Pain blooms in Louis’ chest before he can complete the thought. The itch and tightness and prodding discomfort he’s been feeling until this point is suddenly amplified, and when he can manage to focus his vision enough, he finds that his own skin has taken on a strange colour, with the previously black lines adorning it beginning to shimmer so much it burns. 

His skin is burning. There’s a scream nestled in his throat that won’t come out, a tight fist holding his vocal chords and choking him in the process, so much that he can’t even _breathe_. He can’t breathe, and he can’t see or cry out in agony as his entire body seems to be tearing itself to pieces. In a last ditch effort to lessen the pain, Louis begins to desperately claw at his neck and shoulders where it feels like he’s on fire, where it feels like he’s going to die if he _can’t get his skin off_. 

His movements are frantic, water splashing around his body and slowly turning darker with every bit of skin he sheds. Louis is losing his mind; he’s absolutely losing his mind because he doesn’t understand how to make it all _stop._ His body has stopped working and it has stopped making sense and all Louis wants is to make it – 

“Louis!” 

Something finally stills inside of him, drawing his attention. His arms drop to his sides and he stands, legs stable out of the blue, and his balance completely restored. Louis turns around and blinks open his eyes, and he is hit with the vision of an entirely different world. 

There are colours everywhere, bright and pulsating, almost overwhelming in their presence. It seems like even without the slightest bit of sunlight, at least a dozen rainbows are cutting through the vast cave, reflecting in the puddles that have turned into liquid gold. There are sounds – sounds he’d previously only heard whispers of have now turned into songs, rich and clear and beautiful. And there is his – his _family_. His family. 

Louis is finally back where he belongs. He has finally come home. 

But there is someone here who doesn’t belong. Louis can sense the disturbance; can hear a jagged noise cutting through the melodic humming he feels in his chest and he can feel the discomfort and confusion in their midst as he tries to make out the cause of it. And there it is, he figures, being pulled along by Zayn on unsteady legs and slipping with nearly every step, milky and weak skin blotchy and strange – but also strangely familiar. 

It takes Louis a moment to recognise him, unable to marry the newly rearranged memories in his head with entirely different senses, the images in his mind not fitting what he now sees in front of him. Why he instinctively knows Zayn, Louis can’t tell. But it takes a couple of moments and a few more off-sounding noises before he suddenly – 

_Harry._

What is Harry doing here? How did…how could Louis just leave him? How could he have _forgotten_ about him just until now? Louis wants to call out to him, but he can’t, he physically _can’t_ , because his voice doesn’t work like that anymore. No sound falls past his lips when he parts them. For a second, Louis thinks that if he can’t say anything to Harry, he needs to get to where Zayn is now pulling him towards the stone steps, but something tells him that’s not a good idea. 

Harry shouldn’t be here. And Louis shouldn’t be going anywhere near him. 

He can feel their hostility towards Harry, their confusion as to why Zayn has brought him, because this is a sacred place for them. This isn’t a place that should be tainted by a human. This is a place no human has ever set foot in. Their backs curve, looking ready to attack Harry, who stumbles to a halt, Zayn releasing his arm to join their family on the stone steps, getting right back in line despite the disruption he caused. 

“Louis!” Harry comes dangerously close to slipping off the edge, but Louis still doesn’t dare to move. 

Dozens yell at Harry not to come any closer, but it’s not like Harry can understand them. Louis isn’t even sure if Harry can hear them at all, their entire beings not compatible in any shape or form, something that dawns on Louis with dread and regret. Perhaps making him forget Harry for a while was a small mercy. Not realising he was walking away from anything made it decidedly easy. 

He wants to…Louis doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know what he is supposed to do, what he _can_ do. This was never his choice but now that he is what he is he just – he just feels right, like he’s found salvation and a sense of serenity that he’s never really known. Louis has spent his entire life feeling different and out of place, until now. 

He’s spent his entire life out of touch with the world he was supposed to fit it until – well. Until now. But also until Harry. Finding Harry had felt right as well, and doesn’t it still? 

Before Louis can answer his own thoughts, Harry suddenly loses his balance and falls forward. No, he doesn’t fall – he is pushed. He is pushed and he falls, hits the steps with so much impact that water splashes everywhere, his yelp first echoing through the cave before it’s swallowed up, liquid gold pearling off his face, which is distorted with pain. Louis has to ignore the twitch that starts to shake his entire body, suppress the urge to lurch over to where Harry is groaning as he tries to right himself, body in a heap on the last step to the glistening pond Louis is still frozen in. 

What made Harry fall is still standing at the top, and despite the reconstruction Louis’ senses seem to have undergone, and despite everything looking and feeling and sounding and smelling differently, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that the being up there, looking at Harry with its wide and milky eyes like a summoned executioner, is the kelpie. 

Louis has known for a long time what inhabits the river running through Rosedale Abbey, but he has never really seen it before. Even in his only direct encounter with it, it had mostly been hidden in the dark, murky, and rapidly moving stream. He can vaguely remember seeing renditions of kelpies in a number of books, always likened to a horse with seaweed for a mane and a protruding skeleton. 

But this is no horse. It looks more like a small boy, even with Louis’ new eyesight; like a young, skinny boy with skin that looks damp and dead, a dismal drop of grey in a sea of glistening colours. Louis realises that the kelpie is an unpleasant and usually unwanted guest in their midst, that his family doesn’t want it here either, but it’s come to be a necessary ally, the brawn to dispose of people who venture too close. 

Harry hasn’t just ventured too close – he walked straight into it. Actually, he has fallen into it face first, spluttering and coughing and eyes wide with terror as he frantically looks around, wet hair sticking to his face and soaked through to the bone. Louis can hear his heartbeat, galloping away with rapid speed like thunder, roaring in his ears and it doesn’t slow down, even when Harry’s body finally stills as he seems to have collected himself enough, raised onto his hands and knees and looking straight at Louis and –

And Louis isn’t sure if Harry can even recognise him anymore. 

But Harry catches his gaze and amidst all the flickering lights and colours, Harry’s eyes are a shocking, steady green, and achingly familiar. Perhaps asking himself if Harry knows that this is still him is practically an insult to everything they’ve been to each other, and everything that Louis thinks he still feels somewhere inside this new body. It’s still there, Louis is convinced; this love he’s never truly understood but got to have nonetheless. 

He just doesn’t know what to do with it now. How to…how to channel it or show it now that he has turned back into what he was born as. How to tell Harry that he loves him, that he didn’t know what he was doing, and how this happened now that he can’t even talk anymore, at least not in a language Harry would understand. Louis felt so content just moments ago, but now that Harry is right in front of him… 

He was content before too, wasn’t he?

Harry is right in front of him, and they’re – they’re expecting him to do something, to make the final choice, to tell Harry to go, but Louis can’t move, not in any direction. He isn’t part of Harry’s world anymore, but looking around, Louis isn’t part of this world either, and isn’t that fucking ironic? That the place that’s his true home isn’t a place he knows, and that those who are his true family aren’t familiar to him. They left him, gave him out as some kind of token until they decided they wanted him back and not caring what’s standing in their way or what life they’d have to tear Louis away from. And it does tear at Louis, belonging somewhere but also _not_.

Harry’s lips move, but no sound really registers with Louis over the prominent beat of Harry’s heart, over a soft but raspy growl that comes from the kelpie that’s baring its teeth and putting its treacherously fragile-looking body in motion, down the steps and through the water towards Harry.

And everything after that happens very fast.

Harry isn’t paying attention, eyes still wide and fixed on Louis as he struggles to get to his feet, so he doesn’t notice the kelpie sliding down into the pond until it reaches him and seizes his ankle, pulling his body towards it. Taken by surprise, Harry is once again submerged, any sound that was about to leave his lips silenced by the shimmering water sloshing over his head and hiding him from view. 

Louis feels a lurch go through his entire body, but still he can’t move, his feet rooted to the ground and his gaze firmly set on where he can see the small grey body forcing Harry below the surface, its outlines becoming blurry like it is about to shift into something else. Perhaps the seaweed-maned horse is something it turns into when it is about to kill a person, Louis wonders detachedly whilst he is desperately trying to get this treacherous new body to do something – _anything_. 

Anything but watch this wretched creature get a second chance at drowning Harry. 

Louis feels their eyes on him. He feels _her_ eyes on him, and when he looks over his shoulder, their gazes lock, and he suddenly _knows_ ; knows that she wants him to let go of the last piece that’s still tying him to the world above, that she had Zayn bring Harry here for that exact purpose and that she expects him to watch Harry die and…and leave with her and them and never look back. 

But Louis can’t do that. He can’t let Harry be the final sacrifice and finally – _finally_ – he gets his legs to move. He leaps forward and even though he still hasn’t quite figured out how this body functions, Louis manages to grab Harry’s arm. Putting his weight into it, Louis holds on and moves backwards, lifting Harry’s upper body out of the water and away from the kelpie, which is momentarily taken aback, releasing Harry enough for him to splutter and gasp for air. 

“Lou, plea –” 

It leaps onto Harry’s back, and the impact shakes all of them so much that even Louis goes flying, breaking through the surface with water splashing around him. Yet even beneath the surface, everything is still strangely bright and Louis can see clearly; can see the kelpie clawing at Harry and snarling at Louis. But despite the brightness, they’re right back where they were just…just a day ago, he realises with shock. This time the water is alight and warm and not dark and freezing, but those milky eyes are still the same and Louis feels just as clueless as to how to get this thing to let Harry go. 

He can’t remember how he did it before, or if he even did anything at all that made the kelpie give up, but he is running out of time now. Harry needs to breathe, even if Louis somehow doesn’t anymore, and the kelpie is holding him down, appearing to grow larger in size the longer they stay submerged. 

Louis wants to kick at it, lash out, but he’s scared that loosening the grip he has on Harry will allow the kelpie to pull him out of his arms completely. He needs to hold on, and he needs to get Harry out of the water as quickly as possible, before his lungs start filling with water. Or worse. 

Perhaps letting the kelpie do the dirty work is a small mercy. Perhaps drowning isn’t as bad as having one’s intestines spread out over the frozen moors. 

But no, Louis decides with determination. He is not going to let Harry die. He just has to fucking remember what he did last time, he just has to understand how he works like this, because there has to be something that he can do, something he can tap into. There is a reason, there just has to be a reason for them keeping the kelpie around and there’s got to be a way they can control it, at least in some way. 

It’s following orders and if Louis could just figure out how to get it to follow _his_ instead… 

Pressure builds in his head all of a sudden, just behind his eyes; increasing so rapidly that for a moment, Louis is convinced his skull is about to shatter any second. His instincts are yelling at him to squeeze his eyes shut, to clench his teeth to counteract the throbbing in his head, but there is a voice, quiet but firm, that tells him to keep them open, and so he does. 

He keeps his eyes open, and he keeps his arms locked tight around Harry’s shoulder, and his gaze locks with that of the kelpie. And just as suddenly as it appeared, the pressure leaves his body, sending something akin to an electric shock down his spine and shoulders and through the glistening water. 

The kelpie recoils, and a second later, Louis breaks through the surface, Harry clutched tightly to his chest. 

With a few quick movements, Louis pulls Harry to the edge of the pond, and with more strength he’d thought himself able to muster, he lifts Harry out of the water and onto a dry step. Harry twitches and begins to cough, water leaving his nose and mouth only slowly at first before he manages to curl his body onto his side to spit out what appears to be litres of liquid gold. Louis climbs up as well, crouches next to him, this body of his feeling even stranger out of water. He stretches out unfamiliar hands and gingerly, carefully places them on Harry’s cheeks as he tries to take rattling breaths. Harry twitches, eyes seemingly out of focus, and although the breaths he takes are laboured, he _is_ breathing, and he is alive. 

Louis risks a glance over his shoulder where the kelpie is snarling on the other side of the pond, looking angry but also skittish and scared. He doesn’t really care what he did or how he did it, and he doesn’t care what it did to the kelpie, as long as that damn creature doesn’t come any closer. 

It takes him a few beats to realise he’s baring his teeth, snarling at it. It takes him yet another beat to see that the group around them is starting to thin out, nearly a dozen getting up on spindly legs and disappearing between glowing ferns and blooming flowers. Louis isn’t quite sure what it means that slowly, one after the other leaves the circle and takes their unique glow with them until there’s only the kelpie, who’s still glowering at him, Zayn, and his…his – 

He catches her eyes, gold like the pool but suddenly so much deeper, infinitely so. And there is her voice again; bright and clear like the sound of a bell. Like the bell he tied onto – 

_I can’t come with you_ , he wants to tell her. _I can’t leave him. I can’t leave all of them behind._

She cocks her head. More blossoms trickle down her hair and onto the stone steps like they’re stars raining down from the sky. Her eyes narrow, focusing on him, and she lifts her arm again, holds her palm out for him to take. Insisting. 

Louis breaks the hold her eyes have on him and turns back towards Harry, whose coughing demands Louis’ attention. Harry is spluttering again, obviously struggling to keep his lungs working steadily. Whether it’s from too much time spent underwater, or the lack of oxygen in the air so deep in the earth, or from sheer exhaustion, Louis doesn’t know. But he knows he needs to get Harry back to the surface. He needs to get Harry away from here before anything else can happen to him. 

Looking back at her, Louis shakes his head, keeping his hands on Harry’s comparably frail and trembling form. He is saying no to her. And at the same time, he is saying farewell. 

She drops her arm to her side, and something cold clenches around Louis’ chest. Just the flicker of a feeling, a whisper of grief and a pain this body doesn’t know how to process. Gracefully climbing down the stony steps and walking towards the centre of the pond, hair cascading around her lithe form, she stills for a moment and then, in a strangely human gesture, she nods at him as if – as if she is accepting his decision; as if this is her way of telling him that it’s all right. 

And for a flicker of a beat, Louis thinks there is an air of sadness radiating off of her. 

Like a glitch, it disappears, and the golden water still shimmering around her seems to be slowly losing its glow and Louis feels a sensation all over his skin, trickling down his shoulders and back and down to his toes; warm and syrupy. Like honey. 

Unceremoniously, she turns around, climbing out of the pond at the opposite end, not stopping when she reaches the top, not pausing to look at Zayn, who is the only one still left behind in this cave full of obscurities and wonder. Just like the others, she disappears between the ferns, leaving in her wake a trail of sparkling flowers in her wake, which litter the ground like fallen stars. Louis is too stunned to move, or to do much else, for that matter. 

Zayn looks at him for a moment longer, then he leaves as well. 

Suddenly, they’re all alone and Louis doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now. His eyes are automatically drawn back to Harry, who is now managing to take steady but shallow breaths, and Louis knows getting him back out onto the surface is his absolute priority. Harry probably needs to see a doctor as well, as soon as possible, but how Louis will get him to one is an entirely different question. He’s not even sure how to get out of this cave, let alone if this body will even work outside of it. 

But Harry is looking at him, and he looks calm, like he trusts Louis. Louis can’t say anything to thank him for that, or for everything else he’s done for Louis just by being him, and being here, but he brushes his hand across Harry’s cheek, careful not to break his skin or hurt him in any other way. And he hopes Harry understands. 

Louis straightens up and lets his eyes wander around. He remembers seeing a few tunnels branching off when he’d first stepped into the cave, but everything looks so different now that it takes Louis a minute to locate them. And there is nothing indicating which tunnel leads to the outside world. There is nothing indicating that any of them do apart from the one he used to get here. But Louis can’t remember which one that was. 

He knows, thanks to the kelpie’s presence, that one tunnel possibly connects to the river and the suspected labyrinth of underpasses, and that’s not somewhere he accidentally wants to end up. But he’s sure he can count out the ones that lie in the direction where his family has disappeared. He could probably rely on his new senses if only he’d know how they work.

Regardless, they need to start moving; Harry’s breaths are too shallow and his pulse is too fast, but Louis can’t waste any time figuring out how the hell he can hear that. He bends down and starts pulling softly at the wet jacket he recognises as his own. Harry must’ve thrown it on when he’d left the house to go after him. He’s wet and shivering, but he manages to get up when Louis urges him to, only contorting his face into a grimace when he appears to be putting pressure on his left leg. Louis moves to that side, the dimensions and strength of this body still a mystery, in an attempt to steady Harry on his feet.

Climbing back up onto even ground isn’t easy, but they manage, in spite of Louis feeling off-kilter, as if he’s hovering above the ground and not directly touching it. If he stops and thinks about it, he doesn’t think he can even feel the ground beneath his feet. And Harry – Harry feels almost hot where his skin touches Louis’, his hand clasped around Louis’ arm. Logically, Louis knows Harry can’t be hot, has got to be freezing cold considering how he’s shivering. But that’s also something he can’t focus on right now. 

There are three tunnels up ahead as they make their way through ferns and blossoming plants Louis can’t begin to name. They look otherworldly anyway, glowing away in the dark, strange guiding lights but guiding them nonetheless. 

Harry’s saying something then, his voice close to Louis’ ear, but Louis can’t make out the words. He thinks he can hear his name somewhere in there, but it becomes a jumbled mess in his head that he isn’t able to untangle. It scares him more than a little, but Louis decides to keep his gaze pointed ahead and just because he doesn’t know what else to do, he lifts his head a little and sniffs the air. 

It’s different. He couldn’t say if his sense of smell has heightened, because it’s like Louis can taste it simultaneously, creating an entirely new impression in his mind. Everything is quite sweet, but there’s a faint sharpness up ahead, and it intensifies the closer they get to one specific tunnel. Louis doesn’t know what it means, the way it’s almost burning in his throat now, tasting bitter. 

Tasting _bitter_ , tasting like…like _iron_. 

_The mines_ , Louis thinks with sudden clarity. If this tunnel leads through or even past the old, locked up mining shafts, it’s probably their best shot at getting out.

Stepping into the dark tunnel, Louis is worried that losing the lights from the cave is going to make things difficult, before he realises only a few yards into it that he is glowing himself. And he can feel Harry’s eyes on him. But Louis can’t stop, and he can’t allow either himself or Harry to waste any time, so he pushes on determinedly, faintly illuminating the path that lies ahead. 

At first, the ground is covered in moss, even when the terrain rises, and it’s impossible to tell how much time passes before the moss gives way to hard, black stone. It seems like they’re walking for hours and yet only minutes all the same, and Harry is getting slower and heavier with almost every step, his breathing shortened and his pulse increasingly erratic. They leave the moss behind, and somehow the tunnel becomes narrower, the ground uneven with rocks sticking out, causing Harry to trip every couple of feet.

It’s getting harder and harder to get ahead, the smell and taste of iron so intense, so sharp and practically _poisonous_ that Louis’ head is beginning to spin. It makes sense now, he guesses distractedly, how the mining had disturbed and agitated them, how it probably drove them to venture out and defend themselves and their home; save it from becoming completely contaminated.

When the tunnel is barely wide enough to fit them both and so steep they’re really climbing more than they’re walking, Harry’s legs give out. He slumps against the wall, eyes fluttering and gaze unfocused. Louis touches a hand to his face, and it’s still wet, but this time with sweat. He doesn’t need his senses to know that Harry is burning up, that this is a fever breaking out, Harry’s body not able to withstand the stress of the last day any longer. 

But they’re still not outside, and Louis has no idea how far they are from the surface. If there is even a way out at all. Not allowing himself to panic, Louis unceremoniously grabs Harry around his chest and lifts him halfway off the ground. He clearly doesn’t have much added strength, which is unfortunate, but Louis doesn’t have any other option but to drag Harry’s semi-conscious body along with him. 

The smell of iron is so strong now that Louis’ vision is starting to swim, like there are fucking fumes rising from the ground, the walls closing in around him, hitting against his shoulders and head and just when he thinks that they aren’t ever going to make it out of this tunnel, he sees a light flashing, a pile of rocks and rubble that makes him stumble. 

Louis falls forward, his knees hitting snow. He freezes and blinks, sees Harry lying on his back by his side, the gaping entrance to the mines behind them, and the quiet valley right in front. The sun is rising in the distance, a bright sphere breaking away from the horizon from one second to the next and right at that moment, a thunderous rumbling sounds emerges from the mines. Louis doesn’t get the chance to turn around. An avalanche of dust and gravel whirls hits him, iron so potent it clenches around his throat like a fist. 

He loses his balance, and everything turns black before he even hits the ground.

 

 

***

 

_to be continued._


	9. IX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t…he doesn’t look like he’s _breathing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done.
> 
> Finally, finally - it is done. I am terribly sorry it took me a fucking year to finish this, but I am so relieved that it is actually done and dusted and hopefully wrapping up in a way that will satisfy anyone still reading this story.   
> I don't actually have a lot left to say other than thank Geeb, Dimples and Annie for cheering me on, encouraging me and - in Annie's case - kicking my arse when I needed it. 
> 
> I'll be taking a little break from writing as I focus on my work and the approaching publication of "And down the long and silent street" as original fiction (keep an eye on my [tumblr](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/) for updates), but i still hope to find some time eventually to get started on that The Dead of July sequel I promised.
> 
> Listened to the soundtrack to Nocturnal Animals by Abel Korzeniowski. If you haven't watched this movie, you absolutely should. 
> 
> And now, without further ado, please enjoy, and feel free to leave feedback or come [chat to me](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but the few original characters that float around in the background. This is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities with reality are unintended and incidental.
> 
>  **WARNINGS for this chapter:** swearing, as usual. also non-graphic description of injuries.

 

CHAPTER IX.

 

 

He wakes up to a mouthful of snow and half his face practically frozen to the ground. His eyelids try to flutter open, but everything is so blindingly white that it sends a searing pain through his skull, and it takes another moment for him to process that his entire body hurts like hell, like someone has put him through a meat grinder. Even the groan that starts climbing its way up his throat feels like it’s setting him on fire.

He tries to move his head but can’t, barely managing to make his fingers twitch before he thinks he might be sick. Aching, steady breaths calm his stomach enough for another attempt at moving his head, at least. His nose drags through ice, probably breaking skin, dark spots dancing in front of his already limited vision. 

His head hurts so much. There is no space for anything but the crippling pain that has seized his body and refuses to budge, and – and he doesn’t even know why it hurts so much. 

Time passes, and he can’t tell how long he’s been lying in the snow, soaked and frozen to the bone, before he manages to drag his arms up, hands coming to rest beside his head. Sight fuzzy and limbs twitching and shaking uncontrollably, he tries to make his muscles work, putting his weight onto his palms, which burn and feel numb at the same time. He slips, elbows buckling, landing face first back in snow, again and again, so much that it’s disorienting, nauseating – making him want to just give up and lie there. 

It’s nothing but pure adrenaline and desperation that eventually, after innumerable attempts, give him enough strength to push up and flip over. He lands shoulder first before settling on his back, and he bites down on a scream as another burst of pain flares up his spine and curves over his skull, settling right beneath his hairline. 

Taking in quick and shallow breaths through his nose, Harry blinks and looks up at the sky. 

It’s strikingly blue, not a single cloud in sight. He doesn’t think it was this blue when he last looked up at it. It was dark, he thinks…but no, not quite. It was getting lighter, and now Harry is sure that he saw the first hints of sunlight on the horizon before – 

He shoots up. His chest lurches and his visions blacks out for a moment before his stomach jumps so violently that Harry barely has enough time to lean to the side before its contents burst out of him. He coughs as his throat constricts, instinctively curling in on himself as another wave of nausea overcomes him and he spits something onto the snow that he can’t recall having swallowed. Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Harry is momentarily distracted by his bruised knuckles, by the dark, nearly black flakes sticking to his skin that must be dried blood from his face.

Then his eyes fall back onto the strange substance, seeping into the snow, too thick to be water and not really any colour but instead seemingly all of them at once, finished off with an oily shimmer. It looks…out of this world. 

A second later, all the jumbled thoughts and images slot into place, into the right order. Harry remembers waking to a cold and empty bed and an open window, snow on its sill and the floor below. He remembers needing a moment to register that noise was coming from downstairs, and another to realise it was Puck barking agitatedly; tumbling out of bed, mind still clouded and half asleep as he pulled on his cold and slightly damp jeans. He’d nearly fallen down the stairs trying to put on a sweatshirt that was too small and undoubtedly not his but Louis’, following the noise into the small utility room where Puck had been yapping and scratching at the door like a dog possessed. 

And then – footprints in the snow, two pairs of them, and that creature he’d first encountered in Louis’ kitchen appearing out of nowhere, coaxing him along, up the hill and into the moors. A lot of it remains a blur. Harry had just blindly followed that…creature because he’d thought it would show him where Louis had disappeared to. There had been a strange smell in the air, and perhaps…perhaps that had something to do with him not thinking clearly, with him not noticing his surroundings until – 

Until the cave.

 _Fuck._ Harry takes a steadying breath, and then another, the icy air making him feel slightly more level-headed, pushing away all the fuzz still clinging to the edges of his mind. His hands drop down as he straightens his back, still twitching, shaking, burning like hell. 

The sky is blue, and there’s snow everywhere. There hadn’t been any snow in the cave. Just – unimaginable things and…and he’d nearly died in there. Hell, Harry is sure he would be dead right now if it hadn’t been for – 

For Louis. 

Harry squints again, has to blink away moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes. It’s too bright, and it all blurs into one white mass and Harry still feels dizzy, still feels sick and like invisible hands are trying to tear him apart limb for limb. But he needs to figure out what the _fuck_ happened. He needs to figure out how he even got here, and if Louis is here as well or if he… _god._ Harry doesn’t even want to consider the possibility that Louis might be gone for good. 

Forcing away the urge to throw up again, Harry looks around carefully – his neck stiff and sore and possibly injured – trying to distinguish anything that’s not masses of snow. There’s something darker to his right, nothing but a big blob to his eyes at this point, but it’s _something_. Harry can’t get up, but he manages to get to his knees, and he is hurt and frankly desperate enough to simply crawl towards it. 

Outlines become sharper after a few beats, even with tears escaping down his cheeks, feeling hot against his icy skin, and he wants to be surprised when he is finally able to see that he’s moving closer to the archways of the mines, but for some reason he is not. In an awfully perverse way, this feels like coming full circle, given everything Louis has told him. Harry still doesn’t have a bloody clue how he got here, but at least he knows where he is, and once he gets his legs to work again, once he…once he finds Louis, he thinks he’ll be able to find his way to the village. Because he really needs help.

Distractedly, he notices that he’s lost a shoe, as well as the jacket he’d pulled on in a hurry before leaving Louis’ house. That shouldn’t be a concern right now, but there seems to be something lying amidst the stones right in front of what used to be the entrance of the mines. The tunnels appear to have caved in, emitting an avalanche of rubble, and amongst the stone and dirt breaking up pure white is a body. 

“Oh God, Lou.” 

The words claw at his throat, a sting sitting deep inside of it and Harry scrambles forward, heart hammering against his ribs and then coming to a sudden, painful standstill when he is finally by Louis’ side and Louis looks…he looks…

“No, please no.”

Harry can’t touch him. He doesn’t know if he _can_. Louis’ skin looks translucent, his dark veins looking like a network of black streams fanning out over his body. The runes he’d observed in the bathroom and that – at the time – had only covered the top half of Louis’ body now reach from the tip of his toes to pronounced line of his jaw. Some colourless substance is sticking to his skin, making it shimmer and even though he looks like _before…before he changed_ – he suddenly doesn’t look anything like himself anymore. Louis looks human, but at the same time, he doesn’t look _human_ at all.

He doesn’t…he doesn’t look like he’s _breathing_. 

Harry hisses a curse. Fingers twitching at his side, he hesitates only a second before he grows too desperate and can’t help but reach out for Louis’ limp, lifeless body. He’s wet and strangely sticky at the same time, and bloody frozen to the touch. Harry sits back on his haunches and without a second thought, pulls the sweatshirt over his head to drape over Louis in a desperate attempt to keep him from freezing. He pulls Louis onto his lap, cradling him close to his chest, shaking all over. His fingers find Louis’ throat, and he tries to find a pulse, but Harry hasn’t got a fucking clue where he’d even find it, and his fingers are trembling too much. He can’t do it. He just can’t help him. 

Nearly choking on a sob, Harry clutches Louis close, tries to get up, but his knees buckle, and his joints scream with the strain he’s putting on them. But Harry knows he can’t stay here. He can’t rely on anyone knowing where they are, and if Louis isn’t breathing, if Louis doesn’t even have a pulse – 

Harry grits his teeth, ignoring the shrieking pain that grips his body until adrenaline finally kicks in and he’s on his feet, Louis in his arms. His head is spinning, but he’s got a fair idea which direction to take, and not a lot of time. He can’t allow any other thoughts into his head for now. If he does, Harry knows he’s going to break down. He just has to put one foot in front of the other, one two, one two, one two…

 

  

He doesn’t know what time it is, or how much time has passed other than _too fucking much_ , when Harry finally hits even terrain and something that, beneath what seems like a yard of snow, resembles a road. He hasn’t kept track of how many times he’s toppled over and he hits the ground another handful of times, shielding Louis from the brunt of it, before he sees the edge of the village up ahead. Harry can barely feel his legs; can barely feel anything but gut-wrenching panic, and he opens his mouth, wants to call for help, but his lungs can’t support his voice anymore. He’s wrung out, so exhausted that he’s probably moments from passing out. 

“He –” Harry manages to press out before his throat constricts, holding Louis even tighter, putting one socked foot in front of the other, one two, one two. “Pl – ple…please. Please help.” 

It’s barely a whisper. Nobody is going to hear that. Nobody is going to help. It’s bright, and he doesn’t understand why nobody is outside, why nobody is trying to help. Harry knows he’s crying again, probably hasn’t stopped, and he lets out a garbled yelp that won’t reach far enough, not with everyone’s doors and windows bolted shut. He stumbles, knees hitting the ground and he can’t keep a hold on Louis, who falls on his back, the soaked sweatshirt not doing much to cover him, but Louis doesn’t twitch, doesn’t move, doesn’t wake up and he’s – he’s still not bloody _breathing._

“Help, please.” He desperately clutches at Louis’ face, tilts it towards him, but his eyelids don’t flutter, lashes fanning out over otherworldly skin. “Please, Lou.” Harry can’t lose him. Not after all of this, not after Louis saving his life two times even though Harry was so stupid, and didn’t deserve it; deserved for Louis to leave without even looking back once. He just can’t lose him. “Help. Help!” 

It doesn’t sound like his voice, and it doesn’t sound much like a word, but there’s finally enough volume behind it that Harry has hopes somebody might have heard it. He brushes trembling fingers along Louis’ cheekbones, his brows, the nearly purple lines of his lips. He feels…just so tired. Harry is just so endlessly tired. 

He sobs and curls up at Louis’ side, resting his head on his chest and desperately listening out for a heartbeat, but Louis’ ribcage doesn’t rise and sink, and he remains motionless and cold. The panic clawing at Harry digs deep, to a point where he isn’t even sure if he himself is still breathing, and the thought of just going back to sleep skirts around the edges of his mind just as the sound of commotion reach his ears. 

Harry can barely keep his eyes open, but there’s a small group of people approaching, a dog barking agitatedly, and with a spinning head, he tries to pick Louis up again to move towards them, perhaps not quite meet them halfway, but he needs to try his best. Louis needs help, they need to – Louis needs to breathe. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

One of them is Liam, Harry realises, clinging to Louis despite his muscles screaming to let go, and he’s running towards them, shrugging off his jacket, a big, bulky thing with a shearling lining. Before Harry can as much as blink, Liam seizes his shoulders and pulls him away from Louis, drapes his jacket around Harry’s shoulders. 

At first, Harry is too stunned to move or say anything, until he sees the rest of the group reaching them, Liam’s dad struggling with Puck tugging on his leash, straining towards his owner who is still – 

“Louis,” Harry presses out, breath stumbling over the next words, trying to move out of Liam’s iron grip. “You’ve got to, he’s not – you need to help him. He’s not – _oh God_ – he’s not breathing.” 

He doesn’t understand why they’re all just standing there with wide eyes and not doing anything. He doesn’t understand why they’re not getting help, calling a doctor, an ambulance, bloody _anything_. Harry tries to get to Louis again, but Liam’s grip is solid and Harry is out of strength, adrenaline seeping out of his body and unadulterated exhaustion slowly but steadily taking over. 

Liam traps his arms when Harry continues to reach out for Louis. “Harry, don’t – you can’t touch him. You’re hurting yourself,” he tells him and adds, “just – look at your arms.” 

Harry’s gaze flickers down his body. Liam’s jacket does a good job of hiding a lot of it, but the skin of his bare chest and arms is…red, and blotchy, as if he’d inflicted first-degree burns on himself. He’s not sure how he didn’t notice that. He’s not sure how it even happened. If that’s…if it’s because of Louis’ skin touching his; because of that strange, sticky substance still clinging to him. 

“We need to get you inside, out of the cold,” Liam continues. “You’re hypothermic, and you’re really hurt.” 

“I don’t care, I don’t fucking care,” Harry says, and he’s starting to sound hysterical, because none of them are bloody doing anything. “He’s not breathing! Don’t you get it? He isn’t fucking breathing, so why aren’t you _doing_ anything? I can’t – I can’t –” 

Harry can’t lose him. 

“He’s all right, dear.”

Harry’s head snaps up, heart beating painfully fast and hard, so much so that his entire ribcage seems to be constricting. More people seem to have appeared out of nowhere, but Harry focuses on the old lady who, if he recalls correctly, runs that tiny, dusty bookshop or…or library opposite the small café. He can’t remember her name, but he remembers the bright red frame of her glasses, the knitted beret sitting atop a nest of thin, grey hair. She’s cradling a heavy quilt, which she opens up as she steps closer, spreading it out over Louis’ lifeless form. 

Are they – are they just going to let him die? 

“He’s not dying, my dear,” she tells him, and Harry realises he must have muttered that question out loud. Liam squeezes his shoulders, probably in support, and it should probably hurt, but Harry’s entire body has gone numb. His mind is not far behind. “He just needs a bit of time to wake up again.” 

He doesn’t understand. None of this makes sense. Harry wants to protest, but his jaw locks, and the edges of his vision are darkening. He tries to keep his eyes open, tries to reach out to Louis, looking ethereal and tiny and so fucking fragile under that quilt, one last time. But his body is shutting down, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

Not even another second goes by before he passes out.

 

 

***

  

 

Everything itches. When he first drifts back into consciousness, there isn’t even a fraction of his brain that can process anything but an overwhelming itch that has got a hold on his entire body. His hands twitch helplessly by his side and even though his eyelids flutter, he can’t open them. 

Everything itches, and his chest feels strange, uncomfortable sensations filling it up and – and throbbing in his ears, alongside an accumulation of horrid sounds that make his head hurt. Sounds and voices he can’t place, words he can’t understand, sensations he doesn’t know how to categorise. It’s like somebody has taken him apart, put all the pieces into a box and then shaken until he wrongly reassembled himself. 

Apart from the itch and the sounds, there’s a smell hanging in the air that makes his nostrils burn, that tastes foul in the back of his throat. Foul and rotten and nauseating to an extent that he sluggishly moves his head, instinctively trying to hide his face, trying to press his nose into something to escape that odour. 

What brushes his cheek only amplifies the itch, even though it’s… _soft_ , he thinks. The sensation definitely is, his head cushioned on, well – a cushion. But he doesn’t understand why it feels so agonisingly irritating against his skin. He doesn’t understand why there is a cushion in the first place. All he recalls is…moss. Moss and ferns and gentle light; a softer world. And then – iron. Fucking poisonous iron. Perhaps it killed him and this is death. Itchy and irritating. 

He tries to open his eyes again, just a little, and it’s bright, blindingly so and that’s…that’s not what he recalls either. It had been peaceful and dark and beautiful, then pressure and a sudden burst of light, and he and Harry, falling forward into snow. 

Louis is surrounded by white, but it isn’t snow. 

He’s on a bed, covered by white sheets, sunlight spilling through the panelled windows at the opposite side of the room, so bright that it seems like every single ray is amplified hundredfold. It hurts his eyes, so he narrows them before he lets his gaze wander. The room is small; a beige carpet, heavy red curtains, a wardrobe and a solid chest of drawers. Karen’s décor. 

Harry sitting on a chair beside the bed. 

Louis feels relief flood through him, momentarily calming that godawful itch. Because even though Harry looks worse for wear – his face pale and bruised, a nasty gash with stitches across one of his brows and what looks like bandages poking out of the collar of the ill-fitting jumper he’s wearing – he’s alive. And evidently, so is Louis. 

Harry’s head is tipped forward a bit and his chin is resting on his chest; he probably having fell asleep while watching over Louis. Louis parts his lips, tongue dry and heavy in his mouth, but he can’t make a sound, can’t even produce a groan because his throat feels tight and closed up and – not right. 

A handful of seconds trickle past before Louis understands why that is; why he can’t speak. Why everything feels strange and different, and not quite right. He’d changed back, in that pool of gold, in that cave so deep below the surface. The glamour he’d carried his entire life had just…fallen off. And he’d changed back into what he’d been born as. 

His eyesight appears to be returning to normal, but since he can’t move, and his entire body is covered by a fluffy duvet, Louis can’t even tell if that’s the exception. It’s…an odd thought, and he feels strangely exposed, considering the possibility that Harry, that Liam and Geoff and Karen and everyone else, might have seen him like he really is. Hell, he doesn’t even know what that looks like. He doesn’t really have any reference, because he’s long been convinced that even Zayn had altered his appearance slightly for his trips to Louis’ house. 

And in the cave…it had just all happened too quickly. There hadn’t been time to see and look and even bloody think and – there’d just not been any time. 

His breathing speeds up, and apparently it’s audible that he’s starting to become a bit distressed, because suddenly, there is a bandaged hand on the sheets, and another sound, louder than all the others filling his head, reaches his ears, and he turns toward it. 

Harry is crying. He’s crying and his eyes are red and he’s moving his lips, but it’s nothing but a garbled mess in Louis’ ears, sending a sharp, desperate pang down his body. Louis can’t understand a thing. Harry is talking, and he’s moving closer, crying with…relief, Louis guesses, but he can’t be sure, because he can’t – he can’t understand a fucking thing. 

And he wants to tell Harry; tell him to perhaps slow down, wait a little, but when Louis opens his mouth, he still can’t make anything come out of it. Harry stops his garbling, noticing his struggle, and Louis’ eyes follow him as he reaches for a glass. He brings the glass over to Louis, quickly understands that Louis can barely move his head, so he – 

He slides his arm underneath Louis’ pillow to prop him up. Makes sure that it’s only the glass that touches Louis’ lips, not his fingers. Perhaps Louis is being paranoid, but Harry is tactile, and they’re always touching, so it’s jarring that Harry makes an effort not to. Louis tries not to dwell on it, despite a sharp voice in the back of his head telling him that Harry is clearly repulsed by him and what he’d seen. 

The water touching his lips is a pleasant sensation. But it doesn’t last long. As soon as it fills his mouth and he tries to swallow it, his throat constricts again, spasms prompting him to cough it all up violently, and he can’t stop. It burns in his throat, and for a couple of panic-inducing, drawn-out seconds, Louis can’t breathe. Water spills down his chin and onto the sheets and as Louis’ vision grows blurry again with tears collecting in his eyes, he feels something else push up his throat. 

Louis doesn’t know what he could even throw up, but he coughs and heaves and then, a wave of thick, black liquid bursts past his lips and splatters grotesquely over the crisp, white duvet. He curls in on himself as he continues to cough, only notices Harry jumping back and yelling something at the top of his voice. Spluttering, dizzy, on the edge of losing consciousness again, Louis falls to his side, drained of any strength he had in his body as Karen hurries into the room, face white and eyes wide with something akin to panic. 

Louis is out like a light before she reaches the bed.

  

 

Over the next couple of days – at least that’s what it seems like to Louis, but he can’t be certain – the itching slowly subsides, and although the sounds and smells don’t, he gets used to them; begins to drown them out when there is anyone close by, speaking to him directly. He is unconscious more often than not, dreams of lights and colours and otherworldly things he couldn’t even begin to describe, even if he were to regain his speech. 

And cruelly, just as his physical well-being seems to improve, as he is at least able to swallow and keep down liquids, Louis can feel everything else deteriorate, without knowing exactly why. He wants to be happy that he’s alive, and even more so, he wants to be happy that _Harry_ is alive and well and choosing to sit by his bedside unless Karen or Liam physically drag him away. Louis wants to pull him close and touch him because – because that’s what he chose. But he can’t. And Harry seems hesitant to reach out, most likely still too shaken up by what happened to want to be closer to Louis. 

And Louis – Louis just feels inexplicably sad. He feels a sheer unimaginable grief sticking to his bones that refuses to let go of him. But what he is grieving is a mystery to him. After all, how can he miss something he never had and how can he mourn a family that he was never a part of? 

But Louis can’t shake it. He refuses to let Harry, or anyone else for that matter, see it. It seems unfair to them. Louis chose them, _he chose Harry_ , and maybe this is the price he has to pay for doing that. Apparently nothing comes without a cost, whether in this world or the one below. 

So he lies there, day after day, staring at the ceiling and willing the ache in his chest to go away.

  

 

Words become clearer. At first, Louis is able to pick out the odd syllable, then the odd word, before one day, he wakes to find James standing at the foot of the bed, Liam and Harry sitting on his right, and when James starts talking, Louis can finally understand what he is saying. 

“You’ve looked better, lad,” is what he starts with, and Louis hopes it means he looks like – well, before, if a bit roughed up and pale. He doesn’t think James would be able to hide his shock were he confronted with some luminescent folklore creature. “Though I’ve gotta say, tattoos are a good look for you.” 

Louis feels his lips twitch, feels Harry squeeze his arm through the duvet. 

“Right,” James goes on without further preamble, rubbing a hand across his tired face. “I’m going to be out of your hair in no time. Both of you obviously have some recovering to do, and I want to keep this as stress-free as possible. I just have to go over the official story with you. I’ve already gone over a few points with Harry.” 

He pulls out a small notepad and flips it open. “On your evening walk with your dog, the two of you noticed light coming from the mines. You chose – against your better judgement – to investigate, and found an armed, middle-aged individual who attacked you, and in the scuffle, the tunnel became unstable, burying the suspect.” He takes a breath, flips to the next page. “The two of you escaped with minor injuries and alerted authorities, but our forensic teams haven’t been able to identify the recovered suspect.” 

James clears his throat, and looks up with a shrug. “It’s not ideal, but it’s not like we’ve got much to work with. That sound alright to you, Louis?” 

Louis nods, can’t do much else to show James his gratitude, but he’s pretty sure it’s not necessary for James to understand him. 

“Good,” James nods and pockets his notepad. “I’ll stay in touch, but if there’s anything you guys need, give me a ring, okay?” 

Liam gets up. He looks just as tired as Harry, thankfully not bandaged or bruised, but Louis can’t help but feel guilty about what he’s undoubtedly put everyone though. “I’ll walk you out,” he tells James, which clearly means they have some other things to discuss, which doesn’t surprise Louis, but when they leave the room, the air suddenly turns tense. 

Louis looks at Harry who just…who just looks lost. He looks as lost as Louis feels. Neither of them know how to deal with this situation, and Louis definitely doesn’t know how to deal with how he feels. It had seemed so easy before, even when it had felt hard, but it’s surprising what a little perspective can do. Louis had felt out of place and a bit wrong in his skin then, but it doesn’t compare in the slightest to how it is now, and how is he to know if that will ever fade? How is he to know that this isn’t what is finally going to break them? 

He had hoped they might come out the other side and be stronger than before. Looking at them now, Louis doesn’t think they have ever been so fragile.

Harry clears his throat awkwardly after a few minutes of silence. The bandages around his collarbones have disappeared, but the skin Louis can make out looks red and angry; it looks burnt. Louis has no idea how that happened. He has no way of asking Harry either. 

“Do you –” Harry starts quietly, chewing on his lips, their deep colour an almost startling contrast to his pale skin. “Do you want me to get Puck? Karen didn’t want to let him in before, because he was going a bit crazy, but – but I’m sure you want to see him, right?” 

 _God_ , his dog. His stupid, weird-as-hell, most wonderful dog. Louis nods, eyes already stinging so much that he drops his gaze. Harry leaves the room and Louis hears him go down the creaky staircase in the back part of the Inn, hears muffled voices followed by two high-pitched yaps. A moment later, Puck is thundering up the stairs and, whines coming from the back of his throat, darts into the room, not hesitating a single second before he is up on the bed, shaking from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, which is wagging excitedly. 

Louis can’t quite reach out to him yet, body still heavy and not entirely his own, but his dog clearly doesn’t care. Puck happily slobbers all over Louis’ face, his warm and heavy body lying down half on top of Louis’, before tucking his damp and cold nose into Louis’ hair, heaving a sigh that is more world-weary than any dog should be. Louis manages to move his right hand enough for his fingers to dig into coarse, curly fur, blinks away tears and averts his eyes to the ceiling so as not to see Harry’s own red, glassy eyes. 

For a long while, he only listens to Puck’s breathing and his occasional, slightly-wet-against-his-ear huffs. The familiarity of it centres him and he is about to close his eyes and drift off to sleep when Harry clears his throat again. 

“I think he probably saved us,” he says, his voice quiet and raspy, and when Louis looks at him, Harry’s gaze falls onto Puck still lying across the bed, covering Louis’ torso. Reaching out a timid hand, Harry lets his fingertips run along Puck’s back, and Puck allows it. “Liam told me what happened that – that morning. After I’d…followed you, the back door had been left open and Puck – well. He ran to the Inn, stood outside barking and scratching at the door until practically the entire village was up.” 

He smiles, spreading out his fingers over Puck’s fur. Louis’ dog whines quietly, like he’s commenting on what Harry just said. “Liam went to the house and when he found it empty, he drummed up everyone to get a search party together. It’s probably safe to say that without him, we wouldn’t be here right now.” 

Louis swallows thickly. His throat still hurts like hell. 

“He still isn’t too fond of me,” Harry continues with a chuckle. “But I think he’s made peace with…with me wanting to stick around.” 

Their eyes meet. Harry’s are still glassy and red, but also open and unapologetically honest. It seems like even this whole ordeal wasn’t enough to drive him away; wasn’t enough to make Harry decide that it’s better to turn his back on Louis and go back to his normal and fairytale creature-free life in London where nobody is out to drown him. 

Harry sighs. Pulls his bandaged hands back into his lap and starts kneading them. “I can’t imagine what all that was like for you. And – and I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now. How hard this must be for you.” He pauses, takes another deep breath, for courage, it seems. “But I’m here. And I want to be here. For you. I want us…I mean. I would like us to get through this together. If you’ll let me.” 

He glances up again, and Louis is hit by the emotions pouring out of Harry. It makes his breath hitch and he holds Puck tighter to anchor himself. He believes that Harry means it wholeheartedly, but how can Louis allow him to be so selfless when he can’t even be sure what might happen from this day on? He can’t guarantee that he is ever going to be able to leave this bed, or speak, or – or not walk out into the moors to burrow into the ground like he’s secretly and ashamedly craving. Louis needs those moors desperately; he needs to feel the earth pulsing beneath his feet and needs harsh winds pulling at his form, swirling songs and scents around him. 

He reaches out with a pale, trembling hand and distractedly takes in the black patterns wrapping around his arm, curling around his fingers, much more detailed and elaborate than they were previously. Apart from that, it looks pretty normal, but Louis can tell that for some reason, Harry still hesitates before meeting him halfway, fingertips twitching continuously until finally, skin meets skin. 

Harry’s hand is hot to the touch, unusually so. Louis’ guess is that his body temperature is still rising, his skin still incredibly sensitive and cold. The contact is almost electric, and zings up his arm and into his chest where it seems to be ricocheting off his ribs before it hits his heart with full force. Louis doesn’t deserve Harry; he doesn’t deserve his loyalty and devotion and love. He can’t expect Harry to give so much of himself when Louis can’t give anything in return. 

He just – _god_ , he needs to get out of this room. Opening his mouth, Louis only manages to produce a pitiful croak, but Harry is out of his seat in a second, moving to sit on the side of the bed and clutching Louis’ hand to his chest. It jostles Puck and he huffs, lifts his head to look at Harry disdainfully before he gets up, stretches, and curls down at the foot of the bed, both eyes alert and on them. 

“What do you need, Lou? Water? Do you want to get up?” 

Louis nods. He wants to get up, and he wants to get out, and he can’t do that on his own. His limbs feel incredibly heavy, but he lifts his hand and points to the window, hoping that Harry understands what he means. 

“Do you – do you want to go outside, is that it? D’you – _oh shit_ , of course you need to be outside. Fucking…why didn’t I think of this earlier?” He keeps muttering to himself as he frantically wraps the blanket around Louis like a cocoon and pulls him closer, one arm supporting Louis’ shoulders, and one finding the back of his legs. 

Harry presses his right knee into the mattress for leverage and lifts Louis into his arms, almost like he weighs nothing. “Ok,” he breathes, jaw set firmly but still managing to smile down at Louis, “let’s do this.” 

The first couple of steps are unsteady, Harry adjusting to Louis’ weight, not helped by Puck, who is hot on Harry’s heels and not very good at staying out of the way. The staircase looks daunting, and Louis glances up at Harry as he pauses, takes a deep breath, and then sets a foot on the first step. After that, he moves slowly but steadily, stairs creaking, Puck racing ahead and waiting at the bottom with his tail wagging. 

Before they can get anywhere, Karen appears in the doorway that leads to the lounge, clutching a dishtowel, growing pale. 

“What – where are you going?”

“Out,” Harry answers curtly and turns the other way, heading towards the back of the Inn. “He needs to be outside.” 

“Out…outside? Are you insane, there’s a yard of snow, it’s flipping minus – Liam!” Louis hears hurried footsteps, doors opening and slamming shut, but Harry is undeterred. He crosses the empty kitchen in a straight line, heading for the back door that leads to the garden. Harry struggles with the door handle for a moment before he manages to push it down, fitting his socked foot into the emerging gap. 

Icy air hits Louis’ face, but – but it feels so good. Even without shoes or a jacket, Harry doesn’t hesitate to step out onto the terrace, sinking into snow, pausing a second to adjust his grip on Louis, but then moving right ahead. There’s commotion in the house, and more than one set of feet hurrying towards them, but Harry carries Louis into the garden with steely determination and Louis – 

Louis feels like he can breathe again for the first time in days. He hadn’t been aware how much his lungs had been restricted inside, but now that his throat is finally opening up again, he takes deep, greedy breaths, relishing the smell of plants hiding beneath the snow, listening to the whispers rolling downhill from the moors. 

Below the trees bordering the property, the snow doesn’t seem that high, most of it clinging to the innumerable branches, and that’s where Harry stops, kneeling down and gently placing Louis on the ground, still holding and supporting Louis’ upper body. Louis can’t help but sigh in relief, feeling more relaxed and centred instantly. There’s someone calling out to them from the house, probably Liam, maybe Geoff, but Louis doesn’t pay them any mind, only leans back against Harry’s shoulder and lets his gaze wander upwards. 

“This okay?” Harry whispers, like he doesn’t want to disturb him, or anything, or _anyone_. 

And Louis surprises himself when an equally quiet, raspy “Yes” escapes his lips. Yes, it’s finally okay. 

He can see the sky through the branches of the tree, startlingly clear and blue. A few stray snowflakes land on his cheeks when a gentle breeze brushes through the trees, plucking at them like violin strings. Even through the blanket of snow, Louis can feel the earth beneath him pulse like it’s got its own heartbeat, and, with Harry’s lips pressed to his temple, he pushes his left hand into the snow until he feels the frozen ground.

It doesn’t remain frozen for long. Louis doesn’t know what he’s doing, exactly, and how, but his palm starts to tingle, a languid, heavy warmth spreading through his body like – like honey. He feels Harry hold his breath, and when Louis looks down, he sees snow melting around his arm and just a few moment later, something tickles his palm, and he closes his fist around it gently. 

Louis lifts his arm, little droplets running down and curling around his wrist and elbow, and cradles it to his chest. Slowly and with bated breath, he uncurls his fingers, feels Harry’s gasp more than he actually hears it, and stares down with wonder. 

Sitting there on his palm, violet petals a vivid contrast to Louis’ pale skin, is one single flower blossom.

 

 

***

  

 

_Ten Years Later_

He needs to get new shelves for the linen closet. Standing on his tippy toes to grab for a set of fresh sheets, Louis nearly ends up with the entire collection of bedding on his head because everything is squeezed onto old, wonky wooden planks with not a single inch of space left. He doesn’t even remember how and when he amassed all this crap, or why there’s a need for all of it when barely half of it is actually in use. Ever since he got central heating installed all over the house a few years back, mountains of duvets are no longer necessary to keep warm. 

Hell, there’s even underfloor heating in the first floor bathroom because _someone_ had whined and whined about icy tiles and cold feet every flipping winter. 

Louis bundles up the sheets in his arms and gives the closet a calculating look, making a mental note to text Liam later, before closing the door with his right foot. His steps, muffled by the long carpet covering the hallway floor, still echo through the house, ceilings too high and rooms too big despite the clutter and life that have begun to fill them in recent years. 

Entering the bedroom, he nearly falls over a small pair of trainers that have been abandoned right on the threshold. They’re worn, muddy things that need to have their laces replaced soon by the looks of it. Instead of picking them up, Louis kicks them to the side for now, only to find that Puck has apparently abandoned his tattered sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace. Now the shoes make a bit more sense, but he feels a bit sorry for his old, arthritis-ridden dog. 

He makes up the bed with practiced ease, the used covers already spinning in the washing machine downstairs, then picks up a stray sock, a worn t-shirt, a few crumpled pieces of paper. The empty cup that held his first tea of the day is still sitting on the bedside table, so he picks that up as well before making his way back downstairs, carefully scanning for any pieces of Lego that might be camouflaged by the carpet. 

Louis puts the cup in the dishwasher and proceeds to scan the contents of the fridge, adding a few things to the shopping list in his head. Absentmindedly, he wonders whether to make the trip to Pickering tomorrow or the day after before halting to listen out for any sounds that could give away where everyone is hiding this afternoon. It’s quieter than most days, which in itself has him suspicious, and even though Louis can’t hear the TV that is in one of the converted sitting rooms, he still decides to go ahead and have a peak anyway. 

Sure enough, there are cartoons flickering over the wide screen, cleverly muted by the little bugger using a snoring Puck as a pillow, spread out on the shaggy rug that’s swallowing up the contents of an upended box of puzzles. 

Shaking his head to himself, Louis steps into the room and crouches down on the rug. “And who, I wonder, allowed you to watch telly?” he asks, not fully able to keep the tilt of amusement out of his voice, and he is pretty sure it’s evident on his face when a pair of green bug eyes meets his gaze. 

One chubby hand holding onto one of Puck’s ears, the other wet with drool and halfway shoved into his mouth, Alfie at least has the decency to look sheepish, round cheeks colouring and dimples appearing right on cue, as if he knows that they turn Louis into a gooey mess. Well, he probably does know. Louis isn’t that good at hiding the effect they have on him. 

Alfie garbles something indistinguishable because he refuses to stop chewing on his fingers, and even though Louis is pretty sure he knows what he is saying, it probably wouldn’t be very good parenting to let him get away with it. 

“Fingers out of your mouth, please,” he instructs and suppresses a grimace when Alfie pulls his hand out and unceremoniously wipes it on his jumper. 

“Violet did,” Alfie tells him dutifully and distractedly pulls on Puck’s ear. Puck allows it to happen, only sharing a tired look with Louis and licking over his greying snout once before closing his eyes and going right back to sleep like he’s not got a single care in the world. 

Louis _ah_ ’s and tilts his head. “And since when does Violet give out permissions in this house?” 

Alfie gives him a cheeky smile, dimples breaking out in full force and doesn’t say anything in response, still relying on his puppy eyes to get out of every mess. Louis doesn’t blame him. He’s got an impressive success rate. 

Louis sighs and reaches for Alfie, scoops him up into his arms and stands, deciding that Puck deserves a break from being dragged around by his ears by an overly enthusiastic three-year-old. He switches off the TV and takes Alfie back into the kitchen, where he sits him onto the counter, grabbing some paper towels to wipe drool off his face and hands. He’s recently been persuaded to give up his dummy, so now he puts practically everything else in his mouth. It’s been a bit of a challenge. 

“No telly when the weather is nice and you could play outside, okay? Even if Violet says so,” Louis says, brushing curls out of Alfie’s face. They’re getting quite long, but every time they’ve taken him into town to get them trimmed, he’s screamed the whole bloody shop down, face turning so red they get worried for his health. Looks like a cherub but is practically a tiny demon, Louis thinks with a smile. “And what did we say about bothering Puck?” 

“Not to,” Alfie huffs, clearly displeased with the recent turn of events. He lifts his arm again, but Louis catches it before he can shove his other hand into his mouth. 

“And why?” 

“’Cause he’s old?” 

“Because he is old,” Louis affirms, “and because he needs a lot of rest these days. His bones hurt if he has to walk around too much. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Alfie grumbles and stretches out his arms, silently asking Louis to pick him up again, and Louis does, because he’s still not very good at saying no. He winds his short arms tightly around Louis’ neck and presses his face against his shoulder, probably feeling a bit neglected because everyone has been so busy lately. It’s hard for him, and Louis tries to imagine how he feels, tries to remember what it’s like for him. He takes a mental note to move some stuff around and free up some more time so he can focus on his little guy a bit more. Hopefully it will get easier once Violet starts school in a few weeks. 

“Let’s find your sister, shall we?” 

Louis heads to the utility room, where the door leading out into the garden is wide open as always this time of year. It doesn’t get really hot even in the summer months, but it’s pleasantly warm today, a gentle breeze going, whirling scents and sounds through the air. He steps into his worn-out Vans, quickly checking the timer on the washing machine before stepping out. 

It’s taken a lot of practice to not be constantly overwhelmed by the smells and noises, the bright daylight that, even these days, can lead to awful headaches that strike Louis practically immobile for hours on end. It’s not the ideal surroundings for his body, that’s for sure, but Louis makes it work. He’s got reasons to make it work. 

But he can’t deny that the first few years were a constant struggle. A battle with himself and his mind and this body that has never fully felt like his. It led to a lot of fighting and a lot of tears, and many mornings of Louis waking up in the garden, or even out in the moors, his subconscious steadily trying to go back. And then – then it had come to an abrupt end. 

Louis feels something inside him settle when his gaze falls onto Violet sitting in the grass towards the back of the property, close to where the terrain slowly rises. Specks of light fall through the branches onto her unruly red hair, making it shimmer like copper in the sun. Small, white blossoms are caught in the strands, a sea of purple flowers surrounding her like a blanket. 

She doesn’t hear them coming as much as she senses Louis’ presence, Louis knows, because he can sense it too, and she turns her head. Her face is reminiscent of a porcelain doll, high cheekbones and delicate features that remind Louis so much of himself that it frightens him sometimes, with eyes that seem too big for her face from time to time; eyes that seem too old to belong to a six-year-old, dark and deep and endless, strangely world-weary. Louis wonders if his were ever like that. 

He walks towards her, holding on to Alfie like a lifeline, feeling mildly out of breath and struck with a strange sense of déjà-vu as he draws nearer and nearer. And he remembers that morning so clearly, remembers waking up after years of inner turmoil and throttling guilt and thinking he’d never find peace and suddenly feeling – calm. He’d been calm and centered and he’d known exactly what to do, leaving the bed and the house without changing out of his pyjamas, knowing exactly where to go. 

And he remembers her wailing; hearing her voice for the very first time, just moments before he’d finally laid eyes on her sitting out there on the plateau, surrounded by a bed of heather and moss, violet flowers sticking to her red and damp skin. She’d stopped screaming the moment he’d picked her up in his arms, and Louis will never forget the peacefulness that had flooded his body. He will never forget what it felt like to finally realise that she was his purpose, and she was what he’d been waiting for. 

She was who _they’d_ been waiting for. 

Louis sets Alfie down, not caring that he isn’t wearing any shoes, and he immediately scampers off to his sister. It’s amusing to watch them, because Violet clearly hasn’t figured out how to deal with him, but she indulges him today, allows him to prance through her field of flowers and patiently waits for Alfie to sit down in the v of her legs. He leans back against her, puts his thumb in his mouth, and she starts threading white blossoms into his curls. 

Louis sinks into the grass and gives in, digs his fingers into the earth to feel its pulse, to listen to its whispers as the wind picks up and glides over his exposed skin, running through his hair like a caress. He watches his children, and seeing them so at ease with each other and their homes makes his heart swell and numbs his thoughts to anything that isn’t this peaceful little scene right in front of him. 

He doesn’t think hours pass, but the sun is getting closer to the top of the hills when a solid, warm hand lands on his shoulder and startles him out of his reverie. 

“You guys look like you’re having a good day,” Harry says with a smile and plops down next to Louis before he can move an inch. 

“We are,” Louis replies and welcomes the soft but lingering kiss Harry presses to his lips. He welcomes the kiss, and he welcomes the familiar smell and warmth radiating off of Harry, now virtually as familiar and signifying of home as the moors that surround them. It’s not been easy – far from it, actually. It’s been grueling and heartbreaking and it led to both of them saying things they never truly meant, but that stung so much it wasn’t easy to just take them back either. 

If Louis is honest with himself, sometimes he’d hated Harry as much as he’d loved him for not leaving him when Louis had done nothing but push and push and push him for months. It had become better after Harry had left London and joined Louis in his too-big, too-empty, too-dead house, and they’d finally started to properly heal when Violet had forced them to become parents and to leave all that unnecessary bullshit, which had preoccupied their minds for five years, behind. 

“Daddy!” 

Alfie’s excited shriek pulls them out of their little bubble as he toddles over, falling over twice in his excitement before he launches himself into Harry’s open arms. Harry lifts him up and falls onto his back, launching Alfie into the air with a loud and giggling squeal. Louis’ mouth twitches in amusement, and he watches them for a moment before looking over where Violet is now calmly getting up, pulling at the hem of her shirt, toes pointing inwards. It’s probably the only habit she’s picked up from Harry. 

She’s less enthusiastic than Alfie, but it’s always been that way, and Louis wouldn’t change her for the world. It warms his heart even more when she does seek closeness and contact, like now, not with words, but by placing her small palm right over Louis’ heart once she’s in front of him. Louis cradles her hand to his chest, gives her wrist a short squeeze, feels how the jumbled images and sensations in her head fall into place and retreat. 

She climbs into his lap, smelling like earth and flowers and icy water and tilts her head looking at her brother and other father. Harry lets Alfie drop onto his chest with a dramatic ‘oof’ before he sits up again. Louis watches him as he arranges their son in his lap, the first couple of grey strands catching in the light, the fine lines around his mouth and eyes and on his forehead; signs of years passing that haven’t shown up on Louis’ features yet, and he doesn’t know if they ever will. 

Louis doesn’t know if he will age eventually, or how, and he doesn’t know what the future holds for him, for his _family,_ but he can’t be bothered to care in the slightest when Violet – normally not so tactile with Harry or anyone but Louis – climbs into Harry’s lap and settles against his chest, reaching for her brother’s hand. 

For Louis, in this moment, the entire world is centred and still, and the moor holds its breath and lets them be.

 

 

 

 

_The End._

 

 

 


End file.
